“That isn't true, Celia. Helen can be awkward about arrangements, but she has taken care of Jenny virtually single-handed for the last five years. However much I wanted to, I'd have found being a full-time parent very difficult. I'm sure it's no coincidence that Helen has fallen in love for the first time when she doesn't have Jenny to worry about.” He put out his hand and covered mine. “You realise,” he said, “that there's a good chance she'll want a divorce.”
A month ago such news would have made me ecstatic. Now Stephen was holding my hand, gazing into my eyes, and all I could think was that even marriage would not protect me from Jenny, for a marriage could be broken. Finally I said, “That would be wonderful.”
My halting answer seemed to satisfy him. He squeezed my hand, looked at his watch, and said that he ought to be going. Outside on the pavement he offered me a lift back to the office. I said that I would rather walk. He kissed me quickly on the cheek, then hurried across the street. I stood looking after him, wondering if he would turn to wave, but all I saw was his back rapidly disappearing from view. I started up the stairs to the Royal Mile. A few weeks before, I had climbed them hand in hand with Stephen as Jenny led the way to the
camera obscura, and that night she had stolen out of her bed and poured vinegar over my contact lenses. Yesterday I would have claimed to be reconciled to Jenny's presence, but now that equanimity peeled off like a thin veneer, revealing my true feelings of dismay. On the second landing, a pool of brownish vomit lay splashed across the stone. I stepped around it.
When I reached the street, I hesitated. This was at best a circuitous route back to my office. Through the open doorway of a pub I caught sight of a telephone, and I thought, if it works, then I will take the afternoon off. I picked up the receiver, there was a dial tone, the slot accepted my money, and Marilyn answered. I said that I was not feeling well, and she at once exclaimed how peaky I had looked that morning. She was glad I was being sensible and going home.
I continued walking down the Royal Mile. The wind cut through my thin jacket, and as I drew near Saint Giles the first drops of rain began to fall. I pushed open the heavy wooden door of the cathedral and stepped inside. I had been here once before, with Stephen, on a bright June day when the sunlight coming through the stained-glass windows had made brightly coloured patterns on the stone floor. Today the building was almost in darkness; the few lights scattered high above the nave were sufficient only to illuminate the extent of the cavernous gloom. I had borne the vicissitudes of the last few months by reminding myself that the situation was temporary. Now that security had been torn from me, and I did not know which way to turn.
As I stood gazing despairingly upwards into the vaulted dark, I felt the icy air wrap itself around my bones. This was no place of refuge. I hurried down the nave, past the bronze statue of John Knox, to the east doorway. In the shelter of the eaves, I paused. The raindrops were bouncing off the cobblestones. I had no destination. I could not return to my office, I did not want to go home. For a moment I felt nostalgic for
my old flat, where I could come and go as I pleased. Then it occurred to me that the Chambers Street museum was not far away. I set off, half running, along the rainy streets.
Stephen had told me that the museum was a favourite meeting place among Edinburgh teenagers, but on this weekday afternoon there was no one, bar the attendants, to be seen. As I walked across the main hall, I could hear each footfall, separate and distinct, echoing up to the glass ceiling, four stories above me. I went through a doorway in the far corner and found myself in a room full of old-fashioned glass cases containing groups of stuffed animals. I walked along, looking absent-mindedly at the elk, zebras, bison, and antelope, all somewhat shabby. The next doorway led into a much larger room, labeled “British Mammals.” Here the Victorian ambience gave way to the twentieth century. The room was newly decorated, and the animals were displayed posing freely among rocks and tree trunks. I saw a badger, a fox, and then, loping along in one corner, a wildcat.
As I bent to examine it, I recalled the visit we had paid, many months before, to the zoo. The glass-eyed gaze of the stuffed cat reminded me of the fixed stare with which the living animal had looked upon us. I remembered Jenny's peculiar interest in the cat, and the chilling moment in the street when I had glimpsed her true feelings towards me. Suddenly I heard footsteps and the sound of soft whistling. I turned and saw that a guard had come in. He was carrying a bottle of cleaning fluid and a duster. “Quite lifelike, isn't it?” he said, gesturing towards the cat. I noticed that he looked a little like Lewis. He had the same red-gold hair and fair complexion.
“Have you ever seen one?” I asked.
He shook his head. “You only find them in remote regions.” He repeated what Jenny had learned in school. Wildcats can never be tamed; even a kitten, separated from its mother soon after birth and accustomed to humans, grows up
to be wild. As he spoke, I studied the animal's face. The taxidermist had drawn the lips back into a ferocious snarl, which made it easy to believe this account of innate savagery.
The guard began to dust the horns of two white oxen. I moved round to look over his shoulder. According to the label, the oxen were actually wild cattle. Several hundred years ago these beasts had roamed the north of Scotland; now the only survivors were to be found in the park of an English stately home. I caught the guard's eye and asked if the museum was always so quiet.
“No, this is unusual, even for a rainy weekday.” He gave the cattle a final flick and turned to face me. “So which are you? Unemployed or depressed?”
I stared, wondering if I had heard correctly. “Why should I be either?” I demanded.
“During the week we only get four kinds of visitors: students, old age pensioners, the unemployed, and the depressed. You don't look like either of the first two.”
“What makes you think that the people who come here are depressed?” I felt a curious lightness, as if I might say anything.
“Of course I can't be sure, but when I see someone standing in front of a moth-eaten stuffed animal for half an hour, then I form the impression that at the very least they're less than deliriously happy.”
“Maybe there's something consoling about a museum,” I suggested. “It puts your problems in a historical perspective.”
“Is that what you find?” He stood before me, grinning, the duster dangling from one hand.
Perhaps as a man, I thought, he would not have the same prejudices in favour of children. I was on the verge of telling him everything, when there was a slight crackling noise. From his pocket he produced a walkie-talkie and held it to his ear. “I'm summoned,” he said, as he returned it to his pocket. “It was nice to talk to you.”
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I let myself into the house. Immediately I was aware of activity on all sides: from the living room came the sounds of the television and voices, and from the kitchen the smell of cooking. After the solitude of the afternoon I was returning to the bosom of my family. I put my head round the living room door and saw Jenny and her friend Anna sitting on the floor watching television. Anna said hello and Jenny nodded. I withdrew and went to the kitchen, where Stephen was standing at the stove, stirring something. “Hi,” he said. “I was beginning to think about calling your office.”
“I missed the bus.”
As soon as the words were out I wished I could recall them. On the way home I had been vacillating over whether to tell Stephen how I had spent the afternoon. To do so would reveal the extent to which I was upset, which would in turn lead to another conversation about Jenny, a conversation which, even in anticipation, seemed doomed to failure. But whenever my thinking had approached the alternativeâthat then I should lieâI had drawn back. All afternoon I had been brooding about Jenny. Now it was borne in upon me that over and above my own difficulties with her, she had a profound effect upon my relationship with Stephen. That I should lie to him, especially about something so trivial, was a measure of the distance that had grown up between us. The faint crack of dissension had widened to a fissure, and I saw no way to prevent it from widening still further. I felt like weeping. As Stephen sympathised with my missed bus, the dining room door swung slowly open. The noise of the television carried clearlyâa man's voice followed by laughterâand Jenny came in.
I had expected Stephen to tell Jenny about the change in her holiday plans, but apparently Helen had asked him not to; she wanted to break the news herself and would telephone on Thursday. Meanwhile, during the intervening days, Jenny suffered an agony of suspense. She kept mentioning Christmas and Paris at odd moments, watching us closely to gauge our reaction. Stephen commented that she must know something was going on, as if her ability to guess that the letter contained news of more than ordinary importance was remarkable. Once again it occurred to me how little he knew his daughter. As a teacher Stephen often came across difficult children, such as Kenny, the boy who had set fire to the cloakroom and terrified his mother, but if I were to say, “I am afraid of your daughter, in the same way as Kenny's mother is afraid of her son,” he would have no notion what I was talking about. To him Jenny was a nice little girl composed entirely of sugar and spice. It was true, I thought, no one has a keener motive to understand you than your enemy; your friends can afford to take you at face value.
At the office I did my best to go through the motions of work, but by Thursday the papers on my desk were at a standstill; the very air was thick with anticipation. I thought of Brockbank's Scottish war poets and their descriptions of the sinister lull before they went over the top. I caught an earlier bus home than usual, but after I got off, I walked along the main road and down our street with increasing slowness,
each step more hesitant than its predecessor, until, when I reached the front gate, I came to a complete halt. I could no more have stayed away than I could have stopped breathing, and yet I was deeply reluctant to witness whatever was going to occur. Through the drawn curtains of the living room the lights cast an amber glow which to any stranger would have suggested warmth and safety.
The sight of Mr. Patterson coming down the street drove me through the gate. I put my key in the lock and opened the door. There were the usual sounds and smells. Jenny was doing her homework. Stephen was making dinner. As I stood in the hall, taking off my coat, I felt that rather than divesting myself of encumbrances I was shouldering a new burden, one both heavy and fragile, and I could no longer foresee a time when I would be free to relinquish it. I hung up my coat in the hall cupboard, took off my boots, and went into the kitchen. “It smells good,” I said. “What can I do to help?”
“Nothing,” Stephen said. He was chopping parsley vigorously and seemed in good spirits. “Guess what Deirdre told me today. She's going to move in with John.”
“Big John?”
“No, good heavens. John Eliot, the architect.”
“He seemed nice that time we met him,” I said. I had always concealed from Stephen my slight jealousy of Deirdre.
“Yes,” said Stephen. “I'm very happy for her. In all the years I've known her she's never lived with anyone, so this is a big step.”
I nodded and went off to change. I was in the bedroom, stepping out of my skirt, when the phone rang. “Hello,” Jenny said, and then, almost a squeal, “Mummy!”
“I'm okay,” she said. “I'm going to Joyce and Edward's tomorrow, and Joyce said we would go riding. There are only thirty-one days until I come to see you.”
The door of the bedroom was ajar. I could have closed it,
I could have emerged and gone to join Stephen, but I felt as if my life depended on hearing what Jenny said in this unguarded moment. There was a long pause.
“A baby? How can you have a baby?” Jenny demanded. She began to cry.
On the bed the overhead light cast a clear circle of light, and I sat on the perimeter, listening. I remembered the incredulity with which I had asked my mother the same question. The window was open, and the room was very cold. I realised that I was shivering, and with each tremor that passed over me, my anger towards Jenny lessened. There was nothing particularly startling or revealing in what she said, but the note of anguish in her voice rang out above the commonplace phrases. She was only a child; in all the important aspects of her life she was helpless; to regard her as an enemy or rival was madness.
Now she could not speak for sobbing. Stephen came into the hall. “Helen,” he said. And then a pause. “Jenny's going to Abernethy this weekend. Why not call back next week?” he suggested. “All right. Good night.”
I heard the click of the receiver being replaced in its cradle. “She had to go,” he said, “but she'll call again soon. Come on, Jenny, don't cry. There's no reason to cry, none at all.” He talked on and on, as one might talk to a frightened animal, making a stream of sound to wash comfortingly over his small daughter.
At last Jenny spoke, her voice still twisted by tears. “She always said we were the perfect family, that we didn't need anyone else.”
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At Stephen's suggestion we ate in front of the television. Jenny was pale and woebegone, but calm. As soon as supper was over, Stephen ran her a bath, and she went off to bed.
I was doing the washing up when he came into the kitchen.
Without a word he picked up a dish towel and began to dry a plate. I continued to scrub a saucepan. When I could bear the silence no longer, I asked, “How's Jenny?”
“She's still upset. I'm not really sure what the problem is.”
“She isn't going to see her mother for another month,” I said. “You know the chart she has on the wall by the head of her bed. She'd calculated to the minute when she was going to Paris.”
“Yes, I realise that she's been counting the days, but I thought she would be happy at the prospect of spending Christmas with us, that it would be like having the best of both worlds. God knows exactly what Helen said; I wish I'd told her myself.” He spoke brusquely, as if impatient with Helen, Jenny, me.
“At least this way Jenny knows you're not to blame,” I offered.
“I suppose.” He picked up a handful of cutlery.
Above the sink I could see in the dark window my own reflection, and behind me Stephen, the white collar of his shirt shining. “Perhaps it wasn't the best plan for Helen to tell her about the baby,” I said tentatively.
“How do you know she told her?” he asked.
I turned in surprise. After all, Stephen had heard Jenny's remark about the perfect family: what could he have thought she meant? He was standing motionless, staring at me. I felt myself blush. “I was in the bedroom,” I said. “I couldn't help overhearing.”
“Oh, so what happened?”
“I heard Jenny say, âHow can you have a baby?' Then she began to cry and demand that Helen come home. I'm sorry. The only way I could have avoided hearing was if I'd covered my ears.”
“It doesn't matter,” he said. Without another word, he began to put away the dry dishes, clattering them one against
the other, opening and shutting the cupboard doors with unnecessary force. Once, I thought, not so long ago, I would have known what was troubling him, or he would have told me, but now I was baffled. Even if he guessed that I had eavesdropped deliberately, I did not understand why that would upset him. He closed the cupboard sharply and hung the dish towel up beside the stove.
“I remember,” he said, “one winter Jenny had this terrible flu. She would be sick in the middle of the night. I would bathe her and change her nightdress and make the bed with clean sheets. Then I would hold her until she fell back to sleep. I felt that I was a god in her life. I could make everything better, or almost.” He kept his eyes averted as if the mere sight of me might distract him from this vision. Although he was within arm's reach, I did not dare to touch him.
Later, in bed, I lay beside Stephen, and it seemed that the darkness was pouring into my body, filling me up, like sand, or like water. There was nothing to be done, no way out; I could no longer say at every difficult turn, “Well, only a few months to go, an accountable number of days and hours.” I remembered, as if it were another life, the day when I had been laying the carpet and how I had worried that Stephen had succumbed to Helen. Now I almost wished that my suspicions had been justified.
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By the time I came home on Friday, Jenny had already left to spend the weekend with Joyce and Edward. As I walked down the street I was lighter of heart and fleeter of foot than I had been all week. The prospect of being alone with Stephen made everything seem bearable. Like a hidden magnet, Jenny, by her mere presence, distorted our actions and our very selves; only in her absence could we recover our true direction. I found Stephen seated at the dining-room table, drinking
tea. He stood up and put his arms around me. He slid his hands down my back, and I pushed against him. His mouth opened into mine.
Fully dressed, we climbed beneath the covers. We delved among each other's clothes, unbuttoning, unzipping, discarding, until we were both naked. Stephen lay on top of me and covered me perfectly, so that I felt every inch of him.
When I woke he was looking into my eyes. “I was asleep,” I said.
“Yes, you were dreaming. I felt you trembling. I talked to you, and you grew quiet. Do you remember?”
I shook my head. Whatever the terrors of sleep, they were nothing compared to those of my waking life.
“Stay here,” he said, sliding his limbs away from mine. He left the room, and I lay without moving in the warm hollow our bodies had made. I gazed at the blue walls, trying to think only about their blueness; I was determined not to let my thoughts stray down dark avenues. Stephen returned, and I asked what he had been doing. “I was lighting the fire,” he said. He placed two glasses on the bedside table, and then, sitting up in bed, opened a bottle of red wine. “By the time we've drunk this, the living room will be warm. I bought us take-out food, a kind of picnic.”
“You're wonderful,” I said. I leaned out of bed, picked up my T-shirt from the floor, and pulled it on. Stephen was holding out a glass. “Here's to us,” he said.
“To us,” I echoed.
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We spent most of the weekend in bed, and as the hours passed, I began to realise that whether Jenny was present or absent, something had changed between Stephen and me. There was a subtle shift in our lovemaking, which made me suspect that, at some level, he too was aware of what was happening. We had always been passionate together, but our passion had been mixed with gentler emotions: affection and
friendship. Now we made love almost to the point of pain, bending each other into new positions, riding the crest as long and hard as we could, crying out in strange tongues. Sometimes when Stephen came, above or beneath me, his face was so greatly altered that I did not know him.