‘Just seething with sex. What’s the name – oh yes, Tracey. The one who babysits for you. Apparently she threw up in biology this morning.’
‘Did she?’ Viv thought of Mo’s conversation, at the allotments.
‘Must be the excitement of seeing a nude frog. Then there’s that little incident behind the kitchens. Honestly, Viv, when I go home and tell Louise about my day the kids ask why I’m speaking in French.’
Madeleine left the phone. Viv jumped up and rummaged in her bag. ‘Harry darling, could you lend me 10p?’
He gave her a coin. ‘Chivalry, though terminally ill, is not yet entirely extinct.’
‘You’re a pet.’
She went to the phone and dialled. She was wearing her striped jumper and felt ridiculously hot.
‘Hello,’ she said. Ridiculous. She had never, in her life, rung Ken at work. ‘Is Mr Fletcher there?’
He was. She asked him out for a drink.
Viv sat at the kitchen table, correcting exercise books. She heard Ollie’s footsteps coming down the stairs. He stood in the doorway, holding his overnight bag.
‘Listen to this,’ she said, ‘Mr Rochester is a real man, with a bad temper and broad shoulders and smouldering eyes.’ She closed the book. ‘Perhaps he could fix our guttering.’
Ollie laughed. ‘You’ve been inflaming them again?’
‘She goes on like this for half a page. What Harold calls tumescent prose.’ She stood up. ‘You off then?’
Ollie nodded. ‘I’ve said goodbye to the girls. So you’re seeing Ken tomorrow?’
Viv nodded.
‘We’re both doing our bit, aren’t we? You for the childless and me for the homeless.’ He was going to Liverpool for a housing piece. He paused. ‘I do admire you, you know.’
‘Hey, what about love?’
‘I’m not allowed that now.’
‘Spiritually you can.’
He smiled. ‘Thanks a bunch.’
She put her arms around him. ‘Be Petrarchan. For a month or two you can just write me sonnets and pass them to me in bed.’
He rested his cheek on the top of her head. ‘Are we mad?’
She turned up her face and kissed him. ‘I love you for this.’
Ann drained the potatoes, grimacing at the state of Viv’s sink, she looked at her watch.
Finally Viv came downstairs. She was wearing a knitted apricot two-piece.
‘Crikey!’ said Ann.
Viv looked anxious. ‘I wore this for my interview at school.’
Ann laughed. ‘It’s not you, Viv.’
‘I’ve been hours trying things on. What shall I wear for your husband?’
Ann started mashing the potatoes vigorously. ‘Whatever you feel comfortable in. The first thing you find on your bedroom floor.’
Viv went upstairs.
‘And hurry!’ Ann called. ‘You know how he hates waiting.’
She called the girls in to supper and went on mashing the potatoes. Squashing the lumps, she remembered Viv as a teenager, zipping on her long white boots. Those boots.
They had always shared a room. Ann would be sitting on her bed, doing what? She could never remember. What Viv was doing was getting ready. Struggling into her boots, buttoning up her suede miniskirt, which was grubby but who could afford to get it cleaned? Bending over her inadequate mirror, pencilling Twiggy lashes underneath her eyes. Sixties warpaint. Sometimes she borrowed make-up from her mother’s dressing table.
Late at night Viv would creep in. Creaks from the floorboards. Her efforts to be quiet of course always woke Ann; besides, she wanted to hear. A groan, as Viv unzipped her crippling boots: beauty before comfort. A sigh from the eiderdown as she sat on the bed and whispered about what she’d done, with who. The stifled giggles that made their chests ache. Viv smelt of scent and risks.
Viv appeared again, dressed in a T-shirt and a floral skirt.
‘Better?’ she asked.
Ann nodded.
Viv came over, dipped her finger in the mashed potato and sucked it. ‘Ken always says I look like a tramp. Or a site foreman.’
Ann laughed. ‘Not true. He told me once I ought to take a tip from you.’
‘He didn’t.’
‘“Be bolder,” he said.’ She moved away and shouted upstairs: ‘Rosie! Daisy!’
Ken wore a sports jacket and the pink tie he’d worn on Christmas Day; his hair was sleek and still wet. She greeted him, wishing the pub wasn’t so empty. He jumped up to get her a drink.
‘You stay,’ – she indicated his glass. ‘You haven’t finished.’
‘Please, let me –’
‘Ken –’
‘Please.’
‘All right. Pint of Burton’s please.’ She sat down, smiling. ‘For strength.’
‘Where’s Mum gone?’
‘I told you. She’s having supper.’
‘But why’s she having super with Uncle Ken?’
‘Why not?’
‘Why don’t they have supper here?’
‘Come on. It’ll get cold.’
They sat down. Daisy looked at the chicken. ‘Yum. Mum never cooks us this.’
‘Doesn’t she cook you a proper tea?’
‘Not all this stuff. Where’s she having supper?’
‘Look, I’ll show you something.’ Ann took Daisy’s fork and stroked it along the mashed potatoes. Then she lifted up some peas and scattered them on the top. ‘We used to do this, your mum and I, when we were your age.’ She started to sing: ‘We plough the fields and scatter the good seed on the land . . .’
‘What?’
‘For it is fed and watered by God’s almighty hand.’ she stopped. ‘It’s a hymn.’
‘Oh, a hymn,’ said Daisy.
‘Sorry about the other night,’ said Ken.
‘Doesn’t matter.’ She sipped her beer.
‘The meal, all that trouble.’
‘Listen, Ken. I’m going to go to a lot more trouble than that.’
There was a pause.
‘So how’s school?’ he asked.
‘Fine. Look, Ken . . .’
‘What?’
She was silent. She took out her cigarettes and offered him one.
‘I’m trying to give them up,’ he said.
‘So’m I.’
They each took a cigarette. He rummaged for his lighter.
‘Here.’ She took out her matches and lit his.
‘Thanks.’
They sat there, blowing out smoke.
She said at last: ‘I feel like a first date.’
He didn’t reply.
She said. ‘We ought to talk about clinics.’
‘Isn’t this illegal?’
‘We’ll pretend we’re married.’
He looked at her. ‘They couldn’t believe us.’
‘Leave it to me. I’m a wonderful liar.’
‘Wouldn’t they want to see documents, certificates –’
‘Don’t worry. We’ll sort all that out.’
He paused. ‘One thing we must sort out . . .’
‘What?’
‘Money. I’d rather settle it with you –’
‘I’ve told you Ken. You’re not paying me to have your baby!’
He looked around swiftly.
‘Nobody’s listening,’ she said.
‘There’s such a thing as compensation.’
‘Ken . . .’
‘What?’
‘Don’t feel guilty, don’t feel beholden. It’s dangerous.’
‘What?’ He looked at her, alarmed.
‘You end up resenting the person. Even hating them.’
‘I won’t! I’m just . . . so grateful.’
‘She put her hand over his. ‘There’s no such thing as a selfless act. I want to do it. Get that into your thick head.’ He didn’t reply. She smiled. ‘Come on. Let’s have another drink. Let’s get plastered.’
‘Come on. Bed.’
Ann led the girls past Viv and Olli
e’s bedroom. She glanced inside. It looked ransacked, as if a burglar had decided nothing was worth taking. Clothes lay scattered over the bed: gold trousers, leather skirt, the second-hand, flowery dress that Ollie said made Viv look like a nymphomaniac charlady.
Ann closed the door.
The pub was filling up. Ken finished his third pint.
‘I’m starting to enjoy this,’ he said.
‘Let’s go and eat.’
He stared. ‘What about Ann?’
‘I’ll phone her up,’ said Viv.
‘. . . and the Prince took the magic goblet and drank from it. And as he drank, a wonderful thing happened; he grew young and strong again, and his wounds healed. In the forest the birds started singing and the flowers opened. The Prince strode through the woods, looking for his lost Princess –’
The phone rang. Ann put down the book and hurried into Viv and Ollie’s room. She sat down on the bed.
‘Viv! How’s it going? How is he?’ Ann whispered, even though there was nobody to hear. ‘No, we’re fine. Yes, do. Stay out as long as you like.’ She paused. ‘Good luck.’
Smiling, the put down the phone. She was sitting on the protruding buckle of a boiler suit. When she got up she found it had laddered her tights.
‘Sit this side.’ Viv patted the seat. ‘Such is the womblike nature of their lighting I can hardly see you over there.’
Ken got up and moved next to her.
‘Still,’ she said, picking up the menu, ‘the best curries in London.’
After a moment Ken said: ‘Ann’s a wonderful woman, Viv.’
‘I know.’
‘Never a moment’s bitterness.’
‘What about?’
‘Here you are,’ he said, ‘straight A’s in your exams and you never did a stroke of work.’
She smiled. ‘I did when nobody was looking.’
‘I remember coming to tea once –’
‘Used to get out the best cups for you –’
‘And there you were,’ he said, ‘with your school pullover back to front.’
‘Sexier like that.’
‘You’d had your ears pierced and your dad blew his top.’
‘Very protective, Dad.’
‘Of you.’
She paused. ‘Of me.’
There was a silence. He looked down at the menu.
‘University, kids . . .’ he said. ‘No, there’s no sweeter-tempered lass than Annie.’
She put her hand on his arm. ‘You needn’t convince me, Ken. I think you’re very lucky too.’
They sat silently, listening to the sitar musak. Slightly drunk, she had the sensation of the maroon room echoing and receding, of conversations endlessly repeated. The other diners seemed to be speaking in whispers, but that was probably her imagination. To them, Ken and herself must look like just another couple.
She pointed to the menu. ‘Fancy something mild? That one, that’s nice. Lamb cooked in yoghurt, very subtle . . .’
‘Sounds nice,’ he said. ‘But I think I’ll have the rogan ghosht, some keema nan, and I wouldn’t say no to some dhal and dahi.’
She looked at him in surprise.
He turned to her, raising one eyebrow. ‘Ah,’ he said.
‘Ah what?’
‘You’ve always thought I was a meat-and-two-veg chap, haven’t you?’
She paused. ‘Of course not.’
‘I, too, have lived it up in the odd subcontinental nightspot. I too have had a misspent youth.’
‘Have you?’
He smiled. ‘No. Just came to these places with Ann.’
They laughed. She thought of themselves a couple of hours ago, and the blurring, confidential gift of alcohol.
‘Used to go to the pictures,’ he said, ‘then we’d come to a place like this.’
‘Like us. Now.’
He nodded. ‘I felt . . . if we went to a film first, we’d have something to talk about.’
‘Oh Ken . . .’
‘You’ve never had that problem, have you?’
‘What?’
‘Self-confidence.’
‘Course I have.’
He paused. ‘Sometimes I’d write down interesting topics and put them in my wallet.’
She smiled. ‘Kenny . . .’
He looked at her. ‘Know something? Never told that to a living soul.’ He turned to the tablecloth. ‘Never been . . . spontaneous, like you.’
‘Pretty spontaneous to tell me now.’
‘Must be learning.’ He aligned the salt and pepper pots, side by side. ‘You think I’m pretty boring, don’t you?’
‘Don’t be stupid!’
‘Boring old Ken with his DIY and his boring old job –’
‘No!’
‘And his boring old tropical fish. Don’t know how Ann can stick him.’
‘Ken!’
He paused. ‘I think it’s boring too.’
She stared at him. ‘What?’
‘My job. I see the lads horsing around, but I’m not one of them, am I? But I’m not management either, not a high-flier, don’t want to be. Don’t want a golf handicap.’
‘Glad about that.’
He looked up. ‘Know what I want? I want to run my own little garden centre.’
‘Really?’
He nodded at her, his face solemn. ‘Oh I’m full of surprises.’
She nodded, smiling. ‘So why don’t you?’
‘It’s a big risk. I’ll have to . . . well, see how things turn out.’
‘You mean, if we’ – she corrected herself – ‘if you two have a baby.’
He nodded. ‘Won’t be the best time to give in my notice.’
‘So if I get pregnant, you’ll have to stay in your boring job.’
‘But I won’t mind, will I?’
‘Why not?’
‘Won’t mind anything,’ he said simply, ‘if there’s a child.’
Ollie had spread his papers over the bed. He could make a hotel room look as if he had lived in it for weeks.
He put on the kettle for a cup of tea. He didn’t want one, but he liked to use the tea-bag and the midget pot of denatured milk. On the TV, a game show was in progress. A track-suited woman, of ample build, was trying to hammer one of those test-your-strength machines. Her husband watched anxiously.
‘How’s Joyce doing then?’ asked the compère.
‘She can’t get it up.’
‘Thought that was a husband’s problem.’
The audience roared. Ollie switched off the TV. Outside the window loomed a darkened Liverpudlian office block, too near. Suddenly he felt even lonelier. He picked up the phone.
Ann woke. Her neck ached; she had fallen asleep on the settee. She thought it was the doorbell that was ringing: in her dream Viv was trying to get into her own house.
It was the phone. She picked it up.
‘Ollie! No – it’s me, Ann.’ She looked at her watch. ‘No, not yet. It’s a good sign, Ollie. They need to, well, have a chat. No, I’m fine. Tucked up. No, really . . .’
She put down the phone and looked at her watch again. Then she lay back on the settee, her eyes open.
Viv and Ken came out of the restaurant. Viv staggered; they had finished with brandies.
Ken said: ‘Forgotten where we parked the car.’
Viv giggled. ‘You? Mister Advanced Driving Test?’
Ken looked up and down the street. ‘Round the corner somewhere . . .’
They were near Paddington Station, in one of those shabbily wakeful areas that surround mainline termini. She took his arm. ‘Let’s be companionable.’
They walked along slowly. ‘Sleazy, isn’t it?’ he said.
She nodded. They passed an all-night Wimpy bar, and then the black windows of Genevieve Sauna and Massage.
He said; ‘You like this sort of all-human-life-is-here sort of place, don’t you?’
She nodded. ‘I like a bit of sleaze.’
‘Thought so.’
She turned to him. ‘Don’t you? Just a teeny corner of you . . . hitherto unack –’ she hiccuped – ‘unacknowledged?’
‘Perish the thought . . .’
A woman passed them. Viv nudged him. ‘Bet she’s one,’ she whispered.
‘A you-know-what?’
Viv nodded.
Ken said: ‘Let’s play Spot-the-Tart.’ They paused outside a late-night supermarket. A woman stood inside, looking at the shelves. ‘Two,’ he whispered.
They walked on, slowly.
‘Three,’ said Viv.
‘Her?’ Ken looked at middle-aged woman on the other side of the road. ‘Surely not.’
Viv nodded. ‘Another one can tell.’
‘Another what?’ He sounded alarmed.
‘Another woman.’
‘Ah.’
They laughed.
He said: ‘Bet you played I-Spy with Ann.’
She nodded. ‘Did you?’
He shook his head. ‘Nobody to play it with.’
‘Poor Kenny.’ She ruffled his hair. ‘Poor only child.’
‘Four.’
They turned to look at the passing woman.
‘Four,’ agreed Viv, clutching his arm.
‘At school they said you could always tell if a girl had – you know . . .’
‘Done it.’
‘Done it,’ said Ken, ‘if she wore a charm bracelet.’
‘Did anyone?’
He nodded. ‘Brenda something. She was in the next desk in Geography. She keep asking me why I was staring.’
She laughed. ‘Make any headway?’
‘Me? I was petrified.’
They arrived at the car. She hugged him, burying her face in his jacket.
‘Oh Ken, you’re so . . .’
‘So what?’
‘Sweet.’
He paused, in her arms. ‘Don’t want to be sweet.’
‘What do you want to be?’
‘Masterful. Dangerous.’ He paused. ‘Spontaneous.’
They stayed, their arms around each other, leaning against the car. In the distance, men guffawed and a car door slammed. Behind them, in the main road, a bus passed, its windows lit and empty.
In a low voice she said: ‘Let’s be spontaneous now.’
‘What?’
‘Want to be spontaneous?’
‘How?’
She said: ‘Look behind you.’
Ken disentangled himself from her arms and turned. ‘What do you mean?’
She spelt out the lit sign on the front of the building. ‘H-O-T-E-L.’
He looked at the place. It had once been a row of terraced houses but had now been converted into a shabby commercial hotel. In the ground-floor window a sign glowed: Central Heating. H and C in all Rooms. He said: ‘So?’