And now the other couple, no less in the limelight, Lil always judging swimming or running or other sports events, bestowing prizes, making speeches. And there too was the handsome husband, Theo, known for the chain of sports equipment and clothes shops. The two lean, good-looking people, on view, like their friends, the other couple, but so different in style. Nothing excessive or exuberant about them, they were affable, smiling, available, the very essence of good citizenship.
The break-up of Roz and Harold did not disrupt Theo and Lil. The marriage had been a façade for years. Theo had a succession of girls, but, as he complained, he couldn’t get into his bed anywhere without finding a girl in it: he travelled a lot, for the firm.
Then Theo was killed in a car crash, and Lil was a well-off widow, with her boy Ian, the moody one, so unlike Tom, and in that seaside town, where the climate and the style of living put people so much on view, there were two women, without men, and their two little boys.
The young couple with their children: interesting that, the turning point, the moment of change. For a time, seen, commented on, a focus, the young parents, by definition sexual beings, and tagging along or running around them the pretty children. ‘Oh, what a lovely little boy, what a pretty little girl, What’s your name? - what a nice name!’ - and then all at once, or so it seems, the parents, no longer quite so young, seem to lose height a little, even to shrink, they certainly lose colour and lustre. ‘How old did you say he is, she is …’The young ones are shooting up and glamour has shifted its quarters. Eyes are following them, rather than the parents. ‘They do grow up so fast these days, don’t they?’
The two good-looking women, together again as if men had not entered their equation at all, went about with the two beautiful boys, one rather delicate and poetic with sun-burnished locks falling over his forehead, and the other strong and athletic, friends, as their mothers had been at that age. There was a father in the picture, Harold, up north, but he’d shacked up with a young woman who presumably did not suffer from Roz’s deficiencies. He came to visit, and stayed in Roz’s house, but not in the bedroom (which had to strike both partners as absurd), and Tom visited him in his university. But the reality was, two women in their mid-thirties, and two lads who were not far off being young men. The houses, so close, opposite each other, seemed to belong to both families. ‘We are an extended family,’ cried Roz, not one to let a situation remain undefined.
The beauty of young boys - now, that isn’t an easy thing. Girls, yes, full of their enticing eggs, the mothers of us all, that makes sense, they should be beautiful and usually are, even if only for a year or a day. But boys - why? What for? There is a time, a short time, at about sixteen, seventeen, when they have a poetic aura. They are like young gods. Their families and their friends may be awed by these beings who seem visitors from a finer air. They are often unaware of it, seeming to themselves more like awkwardly packed parcels they are trying to hold together.
Roz and Lil lolled on the little verandah overlooking the sea, and saw the two boys come walking up the path, frowning a little, dangling swimming things they would put to dry on the verandah wall, and they were so beautiful the two women sat up to look at each other, sharing incredulity. ‘Good God!’ said Roz. ‘Yes,’ said Lil. We made that, we made them,’ said Roz. ‘If we didn’t, who did?’ said Lil. And the boys, having disposed of their towels and trunks, went past with smiles that indicated they were busy on their own affairs: they did not want to be summoned for food or to tidy their beds, or something equally unimportant.
‘My God!’ said Roz again. ‘Wait, Lil …’ She got up and went inside, and Lil waited, smiling a little to herself, as she often did, at her friend’s dramatic ways. Out came Roz with a hook in her hand, a photograph album. She pushed her chair against Lil’s, and together they turned the pages past babies on rugs, babies in baths - themselves, then ‘her first step’ and ‘the first tooth’ - and they were at the page they knew they both sought. Two girls, at about sixteen.
‘My God!’ said Roz.
‘We didn’t do too badly, then,’ said Lil.
Pretty girls, yes, very, all sugar and spice, but if photographs were taken now of Ian and Tom, would they show the glamour that stopped the breath when one saw them walk across a room or saunter up out of the waves?
They lingered over the pages of themselves, in this album, Roz s; Lil’s would have to be the same. Photographs of Roz, with Lil. Two pretty girls.
What they were looking for they did not find. Nowhere could they find the shine of unearthliness that illuminated their two sons, at this time.
And there they were sitting, the album spread out across both their stretched-out brown legs - they were in bikinis - when the boys came out, glasses of fruit juice in their hands.
They sat on the wall of the veranda’s edge and contemplated their mothers, Roz and Lil.
‘What are they doing?’ Ian seriously asked Tom.
‘What are they doing?’ echoed Tom, owlishly, joking as always. He jumped up, peered down at the open page, half on Roz’s, half on Lil’s knees, and returned to his place. ‘They are admiring their beauty when they were nymphets,’ he reported to Ian. ‘Aren’t you, Ma?’ he said to Roz.
‘That’s right,’ said Roz. ‘Tempus fugit. It fugit’s like anything. You have no idea - yet. We wanted to find out what we were like all those years ago.’
‘Not so many years,’ said Lil.
‘Don’: bother to count,’ said Roz. ‘Enough years.’
Now Ian captured the album off the women’s thighs, and he and Tom sat staring at the girls, their mothers.
‘They weren’t bad,’ said Tom to Ian.
‘Not bad at all,’ said Ian to Tom.
The women smiled at each other: more of a grimace.
‘But you are better now,’ said Ian, and went red.
‘Oh, you are charming,’ said Roz, accepting the compliment for herself.
‘I don’t know,’ said the clown, Tom, pretending to compare the old photographs with the two women sitting there, in their bikinis. ‘I don’t know. Now? -‘ and he screwed up his eyes for the examination. ‘And then.’ He bent to goggle at the photographs,
‘Now has it,’ he pronounced. ‘Yes, better now.’ And at this the two boys fell to foot-and-shoulder wrestling, or jostling, as they often still did, like boys, though what people saw were young gods who couldn’t take a step or make a gesture that was not from some archaic vase, or antique dance.
‘Our mothers,’ said Tom, toasting them in orange juice.
‘Our mothers,’ said Ian, smiling directly at Roz in a way that made her shift about in her chair and move her legs.
Roz had said to Lil that Ian had a crush on her, Roz, and Lil had said, ‘Well, never mind, he’ll get over it.’
What Ian was not getting over, had not begun to get over, was his father’s death, already a couple of years behind, in time. From the moment he had ceased to have a father he had pined, becoming thinner, almost transparent, so that his mother complained, ‘Do eat, Ian, eat something - you must.’
‘Oh, leave me alone.’
It was all right for Tom, whose father turned up sometimes, and whom he visited up there in his landlocked university. But Ian had nothing, not even waning memories. Where his father should have been, unsatisfactory as he had been with his affairs and his frequent absences, was nothing, a blank, and Ian tried to put a brave face on it, had bad dreams, and both women’s hearts ached for him.
A big boy, his eyes heavy with crying, he would go to his mother, where she sat on a sofa, and collapse beside her, and she would put her arms around him. Or go to Roz, and she embraced him, ‘Poor Ian.’
And Tom watched this, seriously, coming to terms with this grief, not his own, but its presence so close in his friend, his almost brother, Ian. ‘They are like brothers,’ people said. ‘Those two, they might as well be brothers.’ But in one a calamity was eating away, like a cancer, and not in the other, who tried to imagine the pain of grief and failed.
One night, Roz got up out of her bed to fetch herself a drink from the fridge. Ian was in the house, staying the night with Tom, as so often happened. He would use the second bed in Tom’s room, or Harold’s room, where he was now. Roz heard him crying and without hesitation went in to put her arms around him, cuddled him like a small boy, as after all she had been doing all his life. He went to sleep in her arms and in the morning his looks at her were demanding, hungry, painful. Roz was silent, contemplating the events of the night. She did not tell Lil what had happened. But what had happened? Nothing that had not a hundred times before. But it was odd. ‘She didn’t want to worry her!’ Really? When had she ever been inhibited from telling Lil everything?
It happened that Tom was over at Lil’s house, across the street, with Ian, for a couple of nights. Roz alone, telephoned Harold, and they had an almost connubial chat.
‘How’s Tom?’
‘Oh, he’s fine. Tom’s always fine. But Ian’s not too good. He really is taking Theo’s death hard.’
‘Poor kid, he’ll get over it.’
‘He’s taking his time, then. Listen, Harold, next time you come perhaps you could take out Ian by himself?’
‘What about Tom?’
‘Tom’d understand. He’s worried about Ian, I know.’
‘Right. I’ll do that. Count on me.’
And Harold did come, and did take Ian off for a long walk along the sea’s edge, and Ian talked to Harold, whom he had known all his life, more like a second father.
‘He’s very unhappy,’ Harold reported to Roz and to Lil.
‘I know he is,’ said Lil.
‘He thinks he’s no good. He thinks he’s a failure.’
The adults stared at this fact, as if it were something they could actually see.
‘Dut how can you be a failure at seventeen?’ said Lil.
‘Did we feel like that?’ asked ROZ.
‘I know I did,’ said Harold .’Don’t worry.’ And back he went to his desert university. He was thinking of getting married again.
‘Okay,’ said Roz. ‘If you want a divorce.’
‘Well, I suppose she’ll want kids,’ said Harold.
‘Don’t you know?’
‘She’s twenty-five,’ said Harold. ‘Do I have to ask?’
‘Ah,’ said Roz, seeing it all. ‘You don’t want to put the idea into her head?’ She laughed at him.
‘! suppose so,’ said Harold.
Then Ian was again spending the night with Tom. Rather, he was there at bedtime. He went off to Harold’s room, and there was a quick glance at Roz, which she hoped Tom had not seen.
When she woke in the night, ready to go off to the fridge for a drink, or just to wander about the house in the dark, as she often did, she did not go, afraid of hearing Ian crying, afraid she would not be able to stop herself going into him. But then she found he had blundered through the dark into her room and was beside her, clutching at her like a lifebelt in a storm. And she actually found herself picturing those seven black rocks like rotten teeth in the black night out there, the waves pouring and dashing around them in white cascades of foam.
Next morning Roz was sitting at the table in the room that was open to the verandah, and the sea air, and the wash and hush and lull of the sea. Tom stumbled in fresh from his bed, the smell on him of youthful sleep. ‘Where’s Ian?’ he asked. Normally he would not have asked: both boys could sleep until midday.
Roz stirred her coffee, around and around, and said, without looking at him, ‘He’s in my bed.’
This normally would not have merited much notice, since this extended family’s casual ways could accommodate mothers and boys, or the women, or either boy with either woman, lying down for a rest or a chat, or the two boys, and, when he was around, Harold with any of them.
Tom stared at her over his still-empty plate.
Roz accepted that look, and her look back might as well have been a nod.
‘Jesus!’ said Tom.
‘Exactly,’ said Roz.
And then Tom ignored his plate and possible orange juice, leaped up, grabbed his swimming-trunks from the verandah wall, and he sprinted off down to the sea. Usually he would have yelled at Ian to go too.
Tom was not around that day. It was school holidays, but apparently he was off on some school holiday activity, generally scorned by him.
Lil was away, judging some sports competition, and was not back until evening. She came into Roz’s house and said, ‘Roz, I’m whacked. Is there anything to eat?’
Ian was at the table, sitting across from Roz but not looking at her. Tom had a plate of food in front of him. And now Tom began talking to Lil as if no one else was there. Lil scarcely noticed this, she was so tired, but the other two did. And he kept it up until the meal was over and Lil said she must go to bed, she was exhausted, and Tom simply got up and went with her into the dark.
Next morning, lateish for them all, Tom walked back across the street and found Roz at the table, in her usual careless, comfortable pose, her wrap loose about her. He did not look at her but all around her, at the room, the ceiling, through a delirium of happy accomplishment. Roz did not have to guess at his condition; she knew it, because lan’s similar state had been enveloping her all night.
Now Tom was prowling around the room, taking swipes as he passed at a chair arm, the table, a wall, returning to aim a punch at the chair next to hers, like a schoolboy unable to contain exuberance, hut then standing to stare in front of him, frowning, thinking - like an adult. Then he whirled about and was close to his mother, all schoolboy, an embodied snigger, a leer. And then trepidation - he was not sure of himself, nor of his mother, who blushed scarlet, went white, and then got up and deliberately slapped him hard, this way, that way, across the face.
‘Don’t you dare,’ she whispered, trembling with rage. ‘How dare you …’
Half crouching, hands to his head, protecting it, he peered up at her, face distorted in what could have been a schoolboys blubbering, but then he took command of himself, stood and said directly to her, ‘I’m sorry,’ though neither he nor she could have said exactly what it was he was sorry for, nor what he was not to dare. Not to let words, or his face, say what he had learned of women in the night just passed, with Lil?