I was trimming yet another half inch off the carpet, when the Stanley knife slipped in my grasp. The blade sank into my finger. Dark red blood rose slowly through the layers of skin, then flowed swift and bright. As the blood ran down my finger and across my palm, I began to cry, not so much from pain but from despair. I had turned off the radio hours before, and in the empty house my sobs were the only sound. After a few minutes I pulled myself together and went to the bathroom. As I held my finger under the cold tap, the pain lost its first sharpness and settled to a dull ache. I wound a bandage tightly round my finger.
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Almost four hours after Stephen had helped me to unroll the carpet and kissed me goodbye, I heard a key in the lock. I began to hammer in tacks, in a parody of frenzied activity.
“Celia, I'm home.” He came through the door.
I hit a tack so hard that it sank without trace into the carpet. Then missed a second.
“Celia,” he said again.
I sat back on my heels and looked at him where he stood on the threshold, his hands hanging awkwardly by his sides. “Where's Jenny?”
“She still has a cold; she's in bed.”
He was about to say more but I interrupted. All my terrors, which I had been secretly prepared to dismiss in an instant, crowded back, clamouring like hounds as the scent of their quarry grew stronger. “So where have you been?”
“I was at their flat, tidying up.”
“You mean you've been at Helen's all this time?”
He nodded. “You can't imagine what it was like. I've been cleaning up for two solid hours, and the place is still a shambles.”
“I don't understand. I don't understand why you didn't phone me. Stephen, I thought something terrible had happened. I couldn't imagine a situation in which you wouldn't phone that wasn't terrible.” I was still kneeling in the far corner with the hammer in my hand. Looking at Stephen as he stood in the middle of the room, beneath the bare light bulb, I was certain that he was lying.
“I'm sorry,” he said. “I didn't know that you would worry. I thought you would assume that everything was taking a bit longer than expected.”
“You said you'd be back soon.” I bent over and hammered in another tack.
“Celia, stop. Let me explain. Get off the floor and come and sit with me in the dining room.” He came over and held out his hand; I ignored his gesture but nonetheless got awkwardly to my feet. He looked at me, then seemed to decide against further speech and led the way into the dining room. I sat down at the table, while he turned on the gas fire and went into the kitchen. He returned carrying a glass of water, sat down opposite me, and immediately drained the glass.
“I'm sorry I didn't phone,” he said. “Once you hear what happened you'll understand. Helen answered the door in her
dressing gown. It was obvious she was feeling terrible; she could hardly speak. She told me Jenny was ill too and asked if I could pick up some groceries. It's the sort of thing she does that makes me furious, but I couldn't say no; there's no one else she can ask. I went to the shops and bought basic supplies and some comics for Jenny.
“I was going to put the groceries away and leave, but when I saw the state of the kitchen, it was impossible. There were dirty dishes everywhere
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on the floor, the stove, even in the oven. The place smelled like a dump. I started washing up, and that's what I've been doing for the last two hours.”
“Why didn't Helen call you this morning and tell you that Jenny was ill?” I was sitting very straight, holding on to the edge of the table with both hands. More than anything I wanted Stephen to acquit himself, but I was determined not to be fobbed off with false evidence.
“Because she needed me and was too proud to admit it. Celia, don't be angry.”
“But why didn't you phone? What did you think I'd think, waiting and waiting?”
Stephen shook his head in a gesture of helplessness. “I couldn't.”
I waited to see what else he would say, and when he said nothing, I asked again.
“Helen would have thrown me out.” He spread his hands, as if offering me a self-evident truth. “I couldn't bear the thought of leaving Jenny in that squalor. I'd have felt that I was abandoning her.”
“So it's more important to you not to upset Helen than not to upset me.”
“That's not what I said. If it was only Helen, it would be an entirely different kettle of fish. I'm sorry. I should have called, but I had no idea you'd worry.”
“You could have made an excuse, said you needed to buy something, and slipped out to call me.”
“I'm sorry,” he repeated. “The whole experience was upsetting. They both looked so wretched.” He stared at the empty glass between his hands.
I stood up and came round the table to embrace him. “Don't you understand?” I said. “I thought that you were making love to her.”
“Celia.” He held me away from him so that he could look into my eyes. “I love you. When I see Helen, I can scarcely believe that we were once involved. It's like night and day, her and you.”
The idea that this might be what lay behind my anger had not even occurred to him, and that was more reassuring than anything he said. Presently I asked why he thought that Helen would throw him out if he telephoned me.
“I suppose she's jealous.” He clasped his hands more tightly around my waist. “What she says is that she doesn't want to know anything about my other relationships, ever.”
Stephen rose to his feet and together we moved towards the spare room. As we lay side by side, I felt the image of Helen begin to fade. She had been dwelling like a ghost in some corner of the house, and now, banished by our love, she was stealing away, as spirits are meant to do at cockcrow.
By the time Joyce arrived we had the carpet in place and had almost finished tacking it down; she was lavish in her praise. “This looks really professional,” she said. “And the colour is perfect.” Over tea Stephen described what had happened at Helen's. Joyce could scarcely contain herself. She wanted to go to their flat immediately, and only Stephen's firmness persuaded her that Helen might regard this as an intrusion. “They're fine for now,” he said. “It would be better to telephone when you get home and see if they need help tomorrow, or on Monday.”
At work the controversy over Mr. Brockbank's manuscript continued; almost every day Clare received a letter or telephone call from him. She was convinced that we were morally obligated to publish the manuscript, while Bill and I maintained that to do so would only injure both his and our reputations. The situation was further complicated by the fact that we had already published half a dozen books by Brockbank, several of which were coming up for new editions. On Friday afternoon I was looking through a list of permissions when Suzie came into my office. “If I were you,” she said, “I'd go and lock myself in the toilet.”
“Why?”
“I just saw Brockbank in reception. I bet you'll be receiving a summons any moment.”
“Oh, no. What is he like?”
“He's what you'd expect from his books: an old-fashioned schoolteacher. It won't be so bad. You told me that Bill was on your side.” She leaned over and patted my shoulder.
“I know, but I'm not used to criticising people face to face. I do it in the margins. If there's a confrontation, I may behave like an idiot and start telling him how good his manuscript is.”
“Don't you dare,” said Suzie. “Getting rid of that old fart was a stroke of genius.” Even as she spoke the telephone on my desk began to ring.
My first thought as I stepped into Bill's office was that
Suzie's description did not do Mr. Brockbank justice. He was an extremely large man, not in the least like the puny schoolteachers I too often encountered. He dwarfed the easy chair in which he sat, and it was easy to imagine him terrifying generations of small boys. Bill introduced us, and he gave a kind of abbreviated bow. I sat down in the chair near the door.
Bill launched into a speech about recent trends in secondary education. “In teaching grammar nowadays, there are a whole new set of factors to be taken into account,” he said. “For a significant percentage of children English is a second language. Your book is eminently suitable for public schools like Fettes and George Watsons, but we have to aim for a much larger market.”
There was a pause. Bill looked at Mr. Brockbank enquiringly. I studied the pad of paper I had brought, as if about to take notes. Finally Mr. Brockbank said, “It's well known that Fettes and George Watsons are the jewels in the crown of Scottish education, yet here you are trying to tell me that a book which is good enough for them is not fit for publication. I will have to consider whether I can continue to be associated with a company that puts mammon above learning.”
He glared at us both and, without a word of farewell, rose slowly to his feet and left the room.
Bill grinned at me. “Thank goodness that's over,” he said. “We deserve a drink.”
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I was thinking about this encounter on my way home when I ran into Mr. Patterson coming out of the corner shop. He lived two doors down from Stephen and me and was the friendliest of our immediate neighbours. The day we moved in, he had appeared at the door with a tin of homemade shortbread. Now we exchanged greetings, and I asked if he needed a hand with his groceries.
“I may be an old man, but I'm not so far gone that I'm
going to let a woman fetch and carry for me.” He drew himself upright and swung his shopping bags, to demonstrate how light they were. As we started down the street, I matched my pace to his.
“Have you had any word of Mrs. Menzies?” he asked.
“No, it's my fault. I said I would write, and I haven't.”
There was a pause, filled by the rustlings of Mr. Patterson's bags. “I've never been much of a correspondent either,” he said. “It's a shame, though. She was a keen gardener in her younger days.”
Mr. Patterson's own garden was immaculate; even Edward had praised it. His privet hedge was so symmetrical that it looked as if he had measured each individual snip of the sheers. As we paused at his gate, I glanced along the road to where the thin, disorderly strands of our hedge reached out to snag unwary passers-by. “I'm afraid we've been neglecting the garden,” I said. “There's so much to do in the house.”
“I noticed you were going for the uncultivated look,” Mr. Patterson remarked with a sly grin. He tipped his cap to me and opened the gate.
His comment was more than justified. Except for picking daffodils or occasionally uprooting a weed on our way to the washing line, neither Stephen nor I had touched the garden; both the lawn and the flower beds surrounding it were lushly overgrown. Next morning when Stephen left to fetch Jenny, I decided to cut the grass.
Our only gardening equipment came from Mrs. Menzies, who had left us the contents of the garden shed. Edward had called her implements museum pieces, and as I sorted through them I understood why. There was an old-fashioned sieve, a wooden wheelbarrow of the kind seen in photographs of village life at the turn of the century, a pair of long-handled shears, a rake, and several forks and spades. The mower was right at the back, behind our paint supplies and everything else; it took several minutes to manoeuvre it out of the shed.
I unravelled the skeins of dead grass twined around the wheels and began to push the ancient machine around the lawn.
The grass was thick with dandelions and daisies, and I soon took off my pullover and hung it over the washing line. The mower, dark green, wooden handled, with a sort of bonnet attachment to catch the fresh-cut grass, was exactly like the one my parents had owned when I was a child, and as I trudged round and round, I had a sudden image of my father. It was from him that I had acquired the habit of mowing in circles rather than strips. “I hate to keep retracing my steps,” he had said, when Uncle James enquired about this method. “At least this way I feel that I'm getting somewhere, zeroing in on something.”
On the day I was remembering, I had come home late after school and found my father cutting the grass. The lawn was in shadow, and he was wearing a white shirt hanging open over a pair of khaki-coloured shorts; his long bare feet were covered with bits of grass. He had been away in London, and now he was back. “Come and help me rake the grass,” he said.
Under my father's directions, we divided the lawn into quarters and began to rake the grass into four heaps. As we worked, he questioned me about school; he was always particularly concerned to hear what I was studying in maths and science. When we had finished raking, he held the sack open and I scooped the grass in, two-handed. “You're dropping most of it,” he kept saying, which was true, but I could tell that he was not annoyed. We were working on the fourth pile when my mother appeared. “What a good job the two of you have done,” she said. “I was wondering if there might be enough strawberries for dinner.”
While my mother and my father held aloft the green plastic net, I crawled over the strawberry bed, retrieving the ripe fruit. They took turns drawing my attention to possible
berries, but I was the final arbiter. “No, it's only ripe on one side,” I would say, and rotate the berry in order to present the hard, greenish underbelly to the sun.
I emptied the bonnet and continued to circle the lawn. That summer evening I must have been roughly the same age as Jenny, which meant that my father had been only a few years older than Stephen. Maybe that was why, although his feet were vivid, I could not visualise his face; to the little girl who was there he was indefinably old, whereas to my present self he would have been a young man.
When I had finished going round the lawn once, I fetched a wrench, adjusted the mower blade to the lowest setting, and began to go round again. I was so engrossed that I did not notice Stephen until he was almost beside me. “Hi,” he said.
I stopped in my tracks. Looking over his shoulder, I saw Jenny peering into the shed.
“I thought this was an antique. I didn't know you could actually use it.” He bent down to examine the mower.
I found a Kleenex in my pocket, and blew my nose. “You can after a fashion.”
“Woo-woo-woo.” Jenny was patting her hand against her mouth. She ran across the lawn towards me, and before I knew what was happening she had flung herself against my knees. Perhaps she merely meant to take me captive, but in my surprise I fell with a thud onto the freshly cut grass. Jenny stood over me; one foot dug sharply into my side. She stared down, with a slight grimace on her face, as if she found me ridiculous. Pointing her finger at me, she shouted, “Bang, bang. You're dead.”
I lay there, the grass pricking my cheek. I suppose it was a phrase that any child might use, that I had probably used myself, but something about the way in which Jenny said the words made it impossible to ignore their literal meaning.
“Here comes the cavalry,” yelled Stephen. “It's a surprise attack.”
Jenny made a run for cover. From the shelter of the shed, she exchanged gunfire with Stephen for a couple of minutes. He staggered and fell. She ran over and placed a foot on her father's back. When she saw me looking, she tossed back her hair and chanted, “I won, I won.”
Then Stephen sprang up with a yell and grabbed her and tossed her into the air. She let out squeals of genuine, delighted terror.
The three of us set to work. Stephen took over the mower and I began to clip the edges with the shears. “What can I do?” asked Jenny.
“You could do some weeding,” I said. “The flower beds are terribly overgrown.”
“Okay.” She walked to the far end of the herbaceous border that ran along one side of the garden and began to pull out clumps of groundsel and chickweed. When I had clipped the edges as best I could, I went to help her. There was already a substantial pile of weeds lying on the grass. “Don't pull that one,” she told me. “It's a flower. Grandpa grows them.”
We worked in silence for a few minutes. I uprooted a dandelion and brought up several small bulbs in its wake. “Are you feeling better?” I asked.
“Yes. I wasn't really ill, not like Mummy. She's been going to bed at the same time as me all week.”
“What about this one?” I pointed to a tall, feathery cluster of leaves.
“I don't know.”
“I'd better leave it just in case. You seem to know a lot about plants. Do you and Helen have a garden?”
Jenny shook her head.
“Then you must come and help often.” I tugged at some groundsel.
“I don't specially like weeding.” She stood and walked away to where Stephen was bending over the lawnmower.
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After lunch, I retired to the bedroom to work on my current project: a new edition of
Sunset Song
. Stephen was putting up shelves in the kitchen, and at intervals throughout the afternoon when I emerged to make a cup of tea or to see how he was getting on, I found Jenny fidgeting around. Stephen had said she could help him, but that consisted mostly of holding screws and screwdrivers until he needed them. It was hard to ignore the fact that our adult activities were boring to her. When Stephen said that it was time to go home, she ran to get her jacket.
I continued to work for half an hour and then set out for Standard Tandoori, where Stephen and I had arranged to meet. It was still warm, and I walked with my jacket open, enjoying the sense that summer was approaching. My mind was busy with thoughts of Jenny. From her point of view the day had not been a success. She was used to doing special things with Stephen and to being the focus of his attention. It was too much to expect her to suddenly adjust to such humdrum activities as weeding and carpentry.
The restaurant was almost empty. As the door closed behind me, the owner, Chandor, looked up and waved. During the last few weeks we had eaten frequently at Standard Tandoori and had become friends with Chandor and his family. He finished pouring water for a couple of elderly Indian men and came over to shake my hand. “Hello, stranger. Now you have your own kitchen, you desert us.”
“No, we've just been so busy. When we don't come here, we starve.”
“Tonight we'll make up for your absence. I promise a feast. Are you alone?”
“Stephen will be here in a minute.”
“Good. I will alert the kitchen.” He led me to a table by the window.
Chandor's family was camped out at the large table near the back of the room, and I had barely sat down when his
youngest son, Banu, came over. “Will you look at my homework?” he asked shyly. He held out a blue notebook. While I read his account of shopping with his father, his large eyes remained fixed upon me.
“On Saturday,” he had written, “I go with my father to my cousin, Rasiks. Petunia is asleep among the vegetables. We buy carrots, onions, potatoes, peas, and tomatoes. They go in the boot of the car. She tries to come too.”
I thought of Mr. Brockbank and wondered what he would make of Banu's tales of family life. As I began to explain about apostrophes, I heard the sound of the door opening. Stephen came in. I waved, and he nodded and made his way across the room. “Hello, Banu,” he said. He sat down on the opposite side of the table. “Have you ordered?”