‘Shut up.’
‘What?’
He said: ‘Don’t talk like that about her.’
‘Why not? You’ve always been saying –’
‘I’m allowed to,’ he replied. ‘I love her.’
‘Still?’
He swivelled his seat to face her. ‘There’s one thing you don’t understand about Viv. None of you’ve ever understood it. You, or our parents, with their sherry and their platitudes, who wouldn’t know a feeling if it came up and slapped them in the face; or Marcus, stuck out in Hong Kong in his boring sterile job, talking about tax evasion and what sort of stacking stereo to buy – none of you’ve realized one thing about Viv. She’s alive.’
‘So we’re dead?’
‘No. I’m just saying she’s alive.’
Ignoring his coffee, he got off the stool, went into the kitchen and split open a lager. It was Triple Strength Export, the sort of beer that the men in his own neighbourhood, without his educational advantages, drank in the doorways of bankrupt shops. It gave his disintegration a spurious street pedigree. Besides, it got him drunker quicker.
He returned to the living room. She said: ‘You might sneer at your family but the moment you’re in trouble we do rally round.’ She drained her coffee and took the mugs into the kitchen. He stepped aside for her. ‘And you didn’t exactly refuse Great Auntie Flo’s legacy.’
‘She left it to me.’
‘Know what I’m going to buy with mine?’ she asked, pulling up the kitchen blind. He winced in the sunlight. ‘A Golf Convertible. It’s la rage in Brussels.’
Ollie said: ‘I’ve bought time.’ He pointed through the doorway at his typewriter.
‘Why did you leave the magazine?’ she asked. ‘Don’t say you’ve turned Tory.’
He shook his head. ‘Just lost my faith.’ He tipped the can against his mouth. ‘I’ve decided to discover myself instead.’
‘Gawd,’ said his sister, and heaved a sigh. ‘It’s kaftan time.’
Viv paused at the newsagent’s. A For Sale postcard had caught her eye. She got out her biro and took down the details.
The autumnal sun shone and Mr Gupta, the newsagent, was standing in the doorway. He disappeared for a moment and came back with some New Society magazines. ‘Your husband, he never picks these up any more.’
She took them. ‘Look, why don’t you cancel them from now on?’ Saying the words, she felt a spasm of pain. It’s arbitrary, how these things hit. After all, she was only cancelling a magazine order.
To recover herself, she pointed to the three little girls that Mr Gupta was shooing to the back of the shop.
‘They’re not all yours, are they?’
‘Two belong to my sister and her husband, they live upstairs.’
‘Do you ever forget which child belongs to who?’ she asked.
He smiled politely at her joke. Well, he thought it was a joke. As she walked away, stately now in her advanced pregnancy, she thought: perhaps they would manage this business better in India.
Only those who have been pregnant know how it transforms them into public property. Strange children stroke their bellies and question them; other women confide in them, repeating in uncomfortable detail their experiences of birth, varicose veins and flatulence. De-sexed, their bodies are no longer their own, but reproductive vehicles to be prodded in clinics, preferably in front of twenty male students.
In the past Viv, unlike many women, had enjoyed this. Ollie no doubt would have attributed it to her desire to be the centre of the universe. This time, however, it made her feel uneasy and spurious. Bella next door, for instance, had had a more lurid gynaecological history even than Ann, but had managed finally to produce five children, now grown up. She liked comparing notes, and there had always been something watchful about her that Viv had never trusted.
When Viv wheeled the pram home – Ollie had taken the girls out in the car – Bella spotted her.
‘Getting prepared, are we?’ she asked. ‘How long is it now?’
‘Six weeks,’ said Viv briskly, easing the pram into the hall. She shut the door behind her.
As her mother used to say, apropos of childbirth: It goes in easier than it comes out. Viv had to get the pram out, to Ann’s house. It now became dark by six o’clock and that evening, under cover of nightfall, when the car was returned, she threw a blanket over the pram and emerged from the house as furtive as a burglar. Glancing up and down the empty street she bundled it into the back of the estate and slammed the door shut.
She straightened up, breathing heavily. Her back ached. It was at moments like this, when she was doing something practical for her sister, that it hit her. Day by day she could coast along, in the slow, ruminative rhythm that came with pregnancy, and not think at all. But when it came to lugging prams – real metal, real sweat . . . Next week she and Ann were going to Mothercare. She would stand in the bright lights and buy soft white Babygros in cellophane packets, for the new human being that was kicking so insistently inside her and which she must never, for everybody’s sake, ever consider hers.
‘You unfold it like this. Look.’
Viv was demonstrating the pram in Ann’s kitchen.
‘I’d given all my stuff away after Daisy was born,’ she went on.
‘But Viv –’
‘No, it’s my treat,’ she insisted. ‘It was dead cheap. I got it from an ad at the newsagent’s, and when I got there somebody else was about to buy it but I spun them this sob story –’
‘But Viv, it’s old.’
‘Less than two years.’
‘But we were going to buy, Ken and me –’
‘They cost the earth new,’ said Viv ‘and you only need them for a few months.’
‘But, I mean . . .’ Ann paused. She looked embarrassed and polite, as if Viv were a neighbour who had dropped in at an awkward time. ‘I mean, we wanted a new one.’
‘Why?’
Ann touched the pram handle. She looked up at Viv, her face pink. ‘It’s a new baby.’
‘My babies were new.’
‘But it’s . . . special.’
‘All babies are special,’ Viv said shortly.
There was a silence. Neither of them could think of what to say next. If she weren’t my sister, thought Viv, what on earth would we have in common? This realization in the past had not worried her; now it made her heart contract in what she realized was panic.
She looked out at the extension room. Ken had finished it during the summer. It would be a place for the child to play. A sliding door led into the garden; it was one of those aluminium, double-glazed, sliding doors Viv had always considered irredeemably suburban. The sort of thing, in fact, that Ann and Ken would have. As they indeed had.
She felt jittery and went into the lounge. She suddenly missed Ollie terribly. He had always made fun of Ann and Ken’s doggedly earned consumer goods, their vacuumed car and indexed cassettes. He was as snobbish as she was. Like her, he had rebelled against his background, posh though it was. He had tried to consider himself a free spirit (ah yes, but when it came to the crunch, who was?). It would have soothed her disquiet to tell him what she felt. Only somebody who knew how she felt could tell her how silly she was being.
But was she? Ann came in. Viv was studying the two shelves of books – paperback romances and Wonderful Ways with Mince. Some demon prompted her to speak. She said, louder than she had intended: ‘This place reminds me of our parents’. They never had any books either.’
Ann paused. Then she went to the window. Outside it was dark and foggy. She closed the curtains.
She turned. For a moment her face resembled Vera’s, weeks before on her wedding day; there was the same tense dignity about it. Instead of replying to Viv, she said simply: ‘Thanks for the pram. It was kind of you.’
They went into the hall and stood for a moment at the front door. Viv fiddled with her car keys.
Just as she was about to leave, Ann said: ‘It’s not the same as o
ur parents’ house. It’s not the same as yours.’ She opened the door. ‘It’s ours.’
Viv stepped out into the street, its lamps a foggy blur.
Later that evening Ken came home, his boots covered in mud. He was in high spirits.
‘Funny how I don’t mind slogging my guts out after work when it’s my own building site.’ He pulled off his boots. ‘My own mud.’ He put down his sheaf of drawings on the hall table. ‘Do you realize that something deeply miraculous is happening in the history of construction?’
‘What?’ asked Ann.
‘We appear to be on schedule.’
He carried his boots into the kitchen and stopped.
She followed him in. As she had feared, he was staring at the pram.
‘Viv gave it to us,’ she said.
‘Viv?’ His voice was sharp. ‘When was she here?’
‘Earlier.’
His voice trembled. ‘She trying to give us things?’
‘Ken –’ She put her hand on his arm. He moved away. She thought: my bloody sister. He went to the door and threw his muddy boots into the garden – Ken, who was usually so tidy. (Ah yes, nor did he as a rule get parking tickets.)
‘Think we can’t afford to buy one for ourselves?’ he demanded.
‘Do sit down.’
‘What’s she doing? What’s she up to?’ He was highly agitated.
‘Don’t be the old Ken,’ she said. ‘Don’t spoil things.’
He stood there in his socks, saying nothing.
She tried again. ‘She was only trying to help. Look, phone her.’
‘What?’ He stared at her, his face colouring.
‘Have a chat. Thank her for the pram.’
He didn’t reply.
‘Well, ring Ollie then.’
‘Ollie?’
‘He’s going through a hard time. It’d be nice. Clear the air. He’s suffering.’
‘Sitting in a poncy flat in Kensington writing a novel?’
‘Of course he is.’ Lately she had become more fond of Ollie.
He might be behaving stupidly but she knew, in a way, what he was going through.
Ken looked down at his socks. There was a hole in the toe.
‘That aunt of his, remember? When I put a damp-proof course in her house and she couldn’t remember who I was and tried to tip me?’
Ann smiled. ‘You should’ve taken it. We were broke.’
For a split second she didn’t know if he was going to smile. It could have gone either way. Marriage has many such moments.
But it was all right. He grinned fleetingly.
Al stood at the window. Outside he heard the clackety-clack of high heels, of women with somewhere to go.
Ollie paused, then typed on.
He thought of his wife, who had demanded so much; and of his mistress, who had demanded so little. He poured himself another Scotch.
The phone rang. Ollie got up but by the time he got there it had stopped.
Ken had flunked it.
‘. . . and the baby girl was born and there was much rejoicing. But nobody noticed the Black Fairy arriving, and suddenly, amongst all the music and laughter, she started cackling and everyone grew silent with horror . . .’
Viv paused. Rosie’s eyes were closing; Daisy was sucking her thumb. She looked around the room. They had bandaged up their teddies again. She went on reading: ‘and she shouted: “You’ve made your promise, and tomorrow I’ll be back and then your baby girl will be mine! And I’ll take her into my tall tower in the forest and I’ll lock her up . . .”’
Both the children had fallen asleep. Viv closed the book.
It was the next evening. Viv sat in Ollie’s old dressing gown, correcting exercise books. She sniffed, and blew her nose. Her bones ached.
In front of the fireplace was the electric fire; it was not worth lighting logs for one. Beside her was a tin of potato salad; from time to time she put her fork into it and ate some abstractedly.
The doorbell rang. With a grunt, she got up and padded out.
‘Ken!’
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Just thought I’d . . .’
‘Come in, it’s freezing.’
He came into the living room, lighting a cigarette as he did so. His hand was trembling, but she told herself this was just from cold.
‘Where’s Ann?’ she asked.
‘At some dinner-do.’
Viv laughed. ‘They’ll be turning her into a Rotarian soon.’
Ken didn’t reply. He stood in front of the electric fire, his back to her.
‘Want a beer?’ she asked.
‘Please.’
She fetched a can from the fridge. She felt an urgent need to chatter. As she found a glass she said: ‘Whatever will they do without her?’
‘Yes.’
‘They’ll say, just like a woman, they never stay. Too many complications.’
Ken nodded.
‘Men can be unreliable too,’ said Viv, passing him the glass.
‘Look, Viv –’
‘How’s the building work going?’
‘Fine. Look –’
She grabbed the tin. ‘Have some potato salad. I’ll get you another fork because I’ve got a cold.’
‘No thanks.’
She sat down at the table, indicating the tin. ‘One of the secret and deeply satisfying pleasures of living alone.’ She took a mouthful. ‘Do you approve of what Ann and I bought at Mothercare?’
He took another drag of the cigarette and threw it into the grate. ‘I’ve got to talk to you.’
‘Let’s talk about Ann and the baby.’
‘I want to talk about me.’
She smiled. Her hands were clammy. ‘A bad idea.’
‘I must.’
‘Look, we agreed –’
He shouted: ‘I’m fed up with agreeing with everybody!’
His voice was so loud that they instinctively glanced at the stairs. He moved over to the door and closed it. He didn’t go back to the fireplace, he walked over to the sink. This was a bad sign; people always stood at her sink when they wanted to tell her something unwelcome. She wished she had a fever and that she was hallucinating this. Then she would wake up and he would never have spoken.
He said: ‘All my life I’ve been grown-up. Well behaved. I was the oldest little boy you ever saw. I was like a little old man, looking after my mother, swotting for grammar school. I wanted them to be proud of me because I was all they’d got, and if I was boring they certainly didn’t notice because they were my parents.’
She nodded. ‘I know.’ She relaxed slightly; perhaps he was just going to talk like this.
‘Then along came Ann,’ he said, ‘and I felt I had to look after her, make her loved. Her father – well, you know . . .’
‘Yes.’
‘He never really loved her. Or that’s what she said. I didn’t know why, then, of course, nor did she.’ He paused, and drank a little. ‘And them splitting up. I had to be grown-up for her, I wanted to be grown-up, I could do that. I wanted to build her a home and look after her and give her children.’ He stopped.
She waited.
‘I worked away at my job, even though I hated it. I did it for Ann. And I didn’t mind, I never admitted . . . well, I suppose I just thought in terms of her, and us.’ He paused, and pushed a dirty saucepan further down into the water. ‘And if something was missing in all this, with Ann and, you know, everything, well, I didn’t have the words for it. Not till lately.’ He inspected the submerged plates. ‘With you. Suddenly I felt real.’
He stopped and looked up at her. She had never seen his face so naked – not even in their hotel room. She said: ‘Having a baby’s not going to solve everything for you and Ann, it’s not going to make you really happy. Only you can.’ She took a breath and moved aside the empty tin. ‘You two, you’re like a laid fire that’s never been lit because it might waste the fuel, and you’ve got to insulate the house first. No house is ever really insulated.’
She gestured around. ‘This one certainly isn’t. But Ollie and I’ve had some terrific blazes.’ She stood up, grimacing as her back ached. ‘So off you go.’
He stared into the sink. Finally he said: ‘I want to stay.’
‘Ken.’
He looked up. ‘I’ve been trying. I’ve stayed away, haven’t I, all these weeks? I’ve stopped myself phoning you. And, I mean, well, Ann’s job. I’ve learnt a lot. I’m pleased she’s successful and a year ago I would’ve been different.’
‘Because you were all macho.’
‘No! Just responsible.’ He paused. ‘We’re getting on very well. It’s just –’
‘Don’t say it.’
He said, in a low voice: ‘I want you so much.’
She put down her fork. ‘Fine,’ she said suddenly. ‘So we’ll run off together, and I’ll have the baby with you and we’ll leave Ann, and I’ll sell this house and give Ollie the girls.’
‘No!’ He stared at her.
She spoke gently. ‘You don’t want that, do you?’
He shook his head.
‘But you do want me. OK. Let’s fuck.’
He stared at her. She went over to her and took his hand. ‘I know we’re not in a nice hotel and me in my suspenders, but still.’ She pulled him towards the sofa. ‘And there’s a bit of marmalade here somewhere . . .’ She searched amongst the cushions, flinging away the old Sunday papers and various toys. She found the sticky place. ‘Ugh. And I’m awfully fat and I’ve got stretch-marks, want to see them?’ She started struggling with the cord of Ollie’s dressing gown. ‘And a stinking cold and Rosie’ll be needing her medicine in . . .’, she looked at her watch, ‘. . . half an hour.’ She grabbed him and pulled him down on to the sofa. ‘Ow!’ She was sitting on a toy lorry; she flung it on the floor. ‘And I must have a postcoital period correcting all those books, but still, come on, let’s have a bash.’
But Ken had pulled away. He went over to the sink and stood there, leaning on the draining board, his head bowed.
Ann had removed the partition between her own small room and the rest of the office; it was more companionable that way. She could keep in touch with what was happening. Besides, it gave her pleasure to see the daily changing colour of everybody’s clothes against the boring magnolia walls.