Authors: Trezza Azzopardi
The older woman narrowed her eyes into two crystallized
beads.
He might, she said, But he’s very forgetful. He might not
even remember why you’re here. Come suppertime, he might
not even know who you
are
!
Maggie leaned against the heavy wood, listened to the thunk
of the car door, the thick roar of the engine. The exchange
had left her feeling grimy, impoverished in a way she couldn’t
define. Anything but smooth. Catching her reflection in the
long glass casing of the grandfather clock, she saw what Alison
Taylor would have seen: a blurred person, frayed, someone
incomplete. She threw the tray of Dover sole into the oven
and went to take a shower; stood for an age under the scalding
needles of water, imagining herself rinsed, brand new.
She lifts the tray out and wafts a tea towel over it. The sole are
scorched black, and the olive oil dressing has solidified into a
sticky brown stain, as though the fish have bled tar. She kicks
the oven door shut, and studies the recipe book. The timing
was right, nearly; perhaps the temperature was wrong. Maggie
stares at the stove as if it’s to blame, and then remembers the
tinned tuna in her kitchen upstairs. She can make something
with that. Tuna pasta salad, she thinks. If what Alison Taylor
says is true, maybe Kenneth won’t remember about the sole.
Standing at the back door and breathing in the silky night air,
she considers what it would be like if he were to come home
and not remember her.
The train fills up at Reading. The man who sits opposite
Kenneth makes a great fuss of unpacking his bag, claiming the
table with a bottle of water, a cellophane-wrapped volcano of
muffin, his mobile phone. He slides his laptop out in front of
him and flips open the lid. Now Kenneth can’t see him any
more, unless he looks in the window, where he watches the
man’s reflection, face lit up, eyes fixed on the screen, fingers
flying. Kenneth runs a hand over the front of his suit, tracing
the outline of the package in his inside pocket. He has bought
a gift for Maggie:a Montblanc fountain pen. The cap is finished
with an emerald, nearly the same colour as her eyes. But now
he’s uncertain: perhaps he should have got her a laptop to make
her notes on. He wonders what she writes about, finds it
marvellous that he trusts her. Thinking back to only a week
ago – his firm belief that he wanted no interference in his plan,
no one making a suggestion, not even a noise – he can hardly
credit the person he was. Kenneth stretches his legs out, knocking
his foot against that of the man opposite. They both apologize
and renegotiate the space beneath the table. Kenneth looks at
his watch again.
Alison waits until she gets home before phoning William. He
answers on the third ring, sounding brusque and very like his
father. She tells him what she found at the house: who she
found. William professes no interest, until she adds that Kenneth
had forgotten that they were going to the theatre this evening,
and then his voice takes on a new timbre. Now he has
questions. She delights in her answers; she has thought them
through carefully on the drive home.
She’s thirtyish, a bit bedraggled-looking, she says, Slightly
gauche, but that’s clearly an act. You say he cancelled
you
a few
days ago?
She pulls the scarf from her neck as she listens, slowly drawing
the silk away like a shed skin.
Well, perhaps you should go and meet the ingénue, she says,
Make sure your father isn’t getting out of his depth.
When she replaces the receiver, she feels a spreading pressure
between her ribs, a sudden stab of indigestion.
Maggie is nowhere. The dining room, the kitchen, the library,
all are empty. The door to the prefect’s office is open. Inside,
Kenneth sees the window is thrown wide. He pulls it shut,
resting his hand on the papers as he reaches across the desk.
He resists the urge to look. Instead, he removes the pen from
his pocket and leaves it there for her to find. Imagines the
delight on her face. He thinks she must have gone to bed; it’s
after midnight.
There had been a long delay just before Reading, then an
unscheduled stop at Thatcham station, where the train sat
motionless on the track for a full half-hour before grinding to
life again. Kenneth had looked longingly at the man with the
laptop as he phoned his wife, wishing he’d taken Will’s advice
and got a mobile himself. Bring you into the twenty-first
century, his son had said, which made Kenneth all the more
resolute not to give in. But the waiting – the dismal thicket of
bushes outside the window and the way that time sat like sweat
on his skin – made Kenneth do something extraordinary. He’d
seen others do it, before everyone had their own phone: he’d
asked the man if he could borrow his. The handset was warm,
and the square screen too small to read. And Kenneth couldn’t
remember his own number.
Now he consoles himself with the thought that Maggie
probably wouldn’t have answered the phone, anyway. In the
kitchen, he goes to the fridge and sees the champagne is untouched.
He pours a large glass of wine to take to his den,
thinks again, and opens the back door; he will drink it in his
usual spot. Then he sees her. She’s lying on a blanket on the
grass, her legs bent up under her skirt and her bare feet white
as chalk, her head resting on her arm. He continues as planned,
sits quietly on the iron bench and lets his eyes wander over
the sweep of lawn shining in the moonlight, the silhouette of
trees beyond. He’s completely at a loss;worse, he doesn’t know
why. He
wanted
to find her still awake, would have liked to talk
with her, hear her low voice mocking or scolding or just asking
a plain question. He doesn’t know why the sight of her alone
out there in the darkness fills him with such sorrow.
I’m not asleep, she says, I’m watching.
She gets up onto her knees and turns around to look at him.
Her hair swings low over her shoulder.
What are you watching? he asks, trying to keep his voice
steady.
Come and see, she says.
Kenneth goes and sits with her on the blanket, noticing the
empty plate on the grass, her half-full glass balanced on top.
You have to lie down flat, she says, sinking back onto the
blanket. It takes Kenneth a little while to accomplish the manoeuvre,
holding his wine aloft, feeling the night air on the exposed
skin between his trouser-bottoms and his socks. Maggie’s arm
glides across him as she takes his wine glass and puts it with
hers.
Hope you don’t mind, she says, I finished the Chablis.
Of course not, he says.
His face feels constricted with blood, as if he’s lying on a downhill
slope.
And then I opened another one, she says.
Good girl, he says, That’s what I would have done.
He can feel Maggie’s body quivering beside him. He turns his
head; watches a silver tear run down the side of her face and
around the curve of her ear. It takes him a second or two before
he realizes she’s laughing, and it’s such a relief, he laughs too.
I burnt the fish! she cries, wiping her eyes with the heel of
her hand, And then I thought I’d make us some pasta, and I
came out here to sit until it was done and then I forgot all
about it. Burnt the pasta.
Was it tasty? he asks, which makes her roll sideways and beat
her hand on the ground between them. She is very close to
him now.
Uh—
She’s trying and failing to speak. Her face is creased with effort.
I’m sorry I’m so late, he begins.
Shh-shh, she says, Now, we have to concentrate. Look up,
she says, and he does as he’s told. She clears her throat, lifts
something from her side and holds it high in the air between
them. Kenneth sees it’s a wooden spoon.
Is this some sort of magic, Maggie? Are we dowsing for
soup?
He’s delighted when he feels her trembling again.
Watch, she whispers.
They lie quite still together, Maggie subduing a hiccup, offering
the spoon to the sky. First there’s one, then another, and a third,
spiralling above their heads before winging into the black.
Bats! says Kenneth, Maggie, you’re a witch.
The bats flicker in and out of the space; they weave, dive, and
drift away like cinders of night.
Aren’t they incredible, she says.
Who taught you that? he asks, when finally she drops her
arm.
My mother. They’ll home in on any vertical object.
Home in, sighs Kenneth, And fly away again.
Sometimes they come back, she says.
Can you make them come back?
She passes over the wooden spoon for him to take, and he
looks at her steadily for a moment, sees how pale and delicate
her hand is in the light from the kitchen door, and how dark
her eyes, before accepting it from her. He holds it up as she
did, and they wait again. It’s not long before the bats return,
a sudden swoop of one, two black flashes, circling above the
spoon and vanishing again into the night.
Wonderful thing, radar, says Kenneth.
Echolocation, says Maggie.
Kenneth shifts himself up onto his elbow.
Do you think you could echolocate my wine, my dear? All
this excitement has made me quite parched.
The touch of their glasses chimes on the night air.
To bats? she offers.
To the grape outdoors, says Kenneth, waiting for her laugh.
But she doesn’t laugh, she keeps her eyes fixed on his, puts the
glass to her nose and sniffs into it.
See, she says, I have been paying attention.
You should use just one nostril, he says, showing her, But I
don’t think it counts if you’ve already had half a bottle.
True. It all tastes the same to me.
The palate must be educated to notice the difference. The
bouquet is critical.
He makes a pretence of sniffing, swirling, and sipping. He’ll go
to any lengths to amuse her, and finally he gets his laugh, followed,
as seems to be the pattern with her, with a rebuttal.
I’m not doing all that slooshing.
He looks over the rim of his glass.
What does it remind you of? he asks, with the voice of a
schoolmaster.
Kenneth sees her open mouth, and the rim of her glass catch
the moonlight as she tilts it, and has to look away.
Vanilla? she offers, her tongue on her lip. She smiles at him,
a flicker of comprehension in her eyes.
OK. It reminds me of when . . . when you’re down at the
beach and you pick up a pebble and you lick it, she says.
Water over stones, he says, with a small nod of assent, Quite
so.
And you, she says, It will remind me of you, one day.
Kenneth can’t read what she means; it sounds like a goodbye.
Her eyes are distant, now, as if she’s hunting out words in the
dark.
Do you ever swim in there? she says, flicking her gaze to
the trees.
In the river? No!
Nor me. I was never allowed, as a child. And when you’re
grown up . . well, it’s just not something you do.
Isn’t it? says Kenneth, Why not?
Suddenly he can think of nothing more wonderful than to
swim in the moonlight with Maggie. He gets up, holds out his
hand.
I will if you will, he says.
Not at night, that’s daft. And I’ve been drinking.
And now he feels ridiculous, and as if he hasn’t been drinking
nearly enough.
Of course it is, he says, and just as he leans forward to retrieve
his glass, Maggie takes his hand and pulls herself up.
I quite like daft, she says.
I adore it, he says.
Shall we?
From inside the house comes the sound of the telephone: seven
rings, and they wait, listening, looking at each other.
It’s been ringing all night, she says, Ever since – oh, I should
tell you, Mrs Taylor dropped by.
Kenneth keeps his face.
Did she? What did she want?
She wanted you, Kenneth, says Maggie, drilling a finger into
his chest, And she wouldn’t leave a message. She looked a bit
put out to find you’d gone away on a secret mission.
That’s her usual expression, says Kenneth, then, feeling he’s
betrayed his old friend, Actually, she’s all right. Did Ali say that?
About a secret mission?
No, I did, says Maggie, grinning, And I couldn’t find the
answerphone. I presume it’s in your office. Your
locked
office.
I’ll call her tomorrow, he says, It’s too late now.
Too late now, echoes Maggie, her voice ghostly.
I believe you are in your cups, says Kenneth, A man could
take advantage of a lady in such a state.
But a
gentleman
would not take advantage of a lady, she counters,
lifting her chin high and looking up into the sky. She
blinks, leans in a fraction so her shoulder butts against his.
You know, I think I must be a bit drunk, she says, Because
that moon looks three-dimensional.
Kenneth gazes up with her.
That’s earthshine, he says, Also known as the ashen glow.
You’re making it up, she cries, trying to stand straight, Not
very romantic is it, ‘By the light of the ashen glow’?
Kenneth finally gives in to his thoughts. He tries to make his
voice sound bluff and cynical.
Well now, if you want romantic, he says, which makes
Maggie lean in to him again, If you
want
. . .
But he won’t finish. Maggie puts her hand on his.
Go on, she says, If I
want
romantic . . . ?
Kenneth closes his eyes, defeated, and lets out a small puff of
breath,
They also call it, ‘the old moon in the new moon’s arms’.
He feels the lightest brush against his lips. When he opens his
eyes, she is just as she was, looking at him intently. He must
have imagined it.
Later, he will think it felt like the flutter of a bat’s wing, or
a stray lock of her hair as she turned her head, or a faint breeze
carried on the night. He is willing to believe anything but the
kiss, which is, to him, beyond belief.