Vanessa was sitting on the blue velvet
bean bag, poking plastic shapes into her holey ball.
She had been doing quite well; the toy
was possibly too young for her, but a triangle would not fit into a
square despite twisting and pushing and biting. So now she had really
no option but to scream; hurl the ball at her mother and rip off her
nappy.
Which she did.
Vanessa was eleven months old. She
could crawl, climb and stand. Over the last few days she had begun to
place one foot in front of the other whilst standing.
She was a pink, white and blonde baby,
who adored her father; her grandparents; her nanny; her friends at
Kozy Kids Playgroup and even her doctor.
Everyone except her mother.
The person she was supposed to like
the very best of all…..
The three of them – and dog Splosh –
lived in a three -storey Victorian terrace, five miles to the south
of Gridchester. Five miles out – and different continents, she
mused, consigning the soiled nappy to soak in its white plastic
Mothercraft pail.
Terry nappies were loathsome and
despite Gillian’s strictures (only single mothers on slum
council estates use disposables) she would have eaten an arm and
several legs for a year’s supply of Comfytots.
Unfortunately, Vanessa had no interest
in obliging her mother and sprouted lurid wheals and spots in the
nappy area (the decorous phraseology of the Health Visitor) at
the very glimpse of a Comfytot in all its padded, perfumed
perfection.
Until you start school, probably, or
get fed up with shit half way up your back because no matter how I
pin the bloody Terry, it seeps out and up and through everything all
the time.
It was not that she did not love
Vanessa; indeed, anyone who dared insinuate that her
daughter was anything other than the Godhead made flesh, ran a severe
personal risk.
Btu Vanessa did not hold her in
equal esteem.
At times like today, she had the
distinct impression that Vanessa was disappointed in her; that she
had failed a specially crafted Vanessa test; they were neither in the
same club, nor on the same side.
Paul, and Gillian and Donald, and her
parents, and Eric, and Nicola and the kiddies AND VANESSA, were
on one side; knew the rules of the game and sang from the same hymn
sheet.
And she was on the other.
It was not supposed to be like that.
But it was.
Paul had returned from the embraces of
Frances Hunt a week before the beginning of the autumn term and she
took him back on auto pilot.
When she considered it (which she did
not as a rule), it was to reflect; sometimes with pragmatism and at
other times – not - that she had dismissed any alternative
course of action.
She was 25. She had married at 24. She
was not going to be a divorcee at 26 and have completed to
quote Ishiguro, within a three year time span from start to finish.
She was not.
Paul’s explanation for 6 weeks AWOL
in the arms of another did not convince, but humankind cannot
bear too much reality. She certainly could not, and so allowed
his defence; in essence a terror of remarriage consequent upon the
deplorable parenting skills of Lilias, to pass without scrutiny It
was not satisfactory, but she had neither desire nor inclination to
uncover the skull beneath the skin.
From time to time, remarks would be
made about life in the Stavely Forest love nest but these were
disembodied and both graphic and vague.
On the one hand, she had little or no
idea of how they had spent their time; obvious pursuits excepted.
On the other; the pursuit of the
obvious pursuit was impeded by the fact that the Princess Margaret
manqué who had supplanted her, albeit temporarily, had given
birth five times and was as saggy as an under-done Victoria sandwich.
The revelation that he had made a
disastrous mistake and was desperately pining for his young wife, hit
Paul on the road to Damascus (or the road back to the converted
chapel after a session in the splendidly rustic Horn of the Forest
pub) as he returned to a light supper of anchovies on toast
with Gentleman’s Relish.
There was then nothing for it but to
decamp immediately after the meal, drive like a demented demon and
cast myself upon your mercy, darling. Beast that I am – can I ever
deserve you and make amends?
After a week’s prevarication, (and
emboldened by a two stone weight loss) she allowed him into the hall;
the lounge and the bedroom – in that order.
It had, by any estimation, been an
eventful summer vacation – the details of which she would not be
sharing with colleagues.
Her parents; Eric; Gillian and Donald;
Nicola and the kiddies; Lynne and the assorted sheep and goats on the
Dorlich and Chudleigh social scene had, however, to be acquainted
with her change of circumstances. Or reversion to the original
circumstances Or something.
He mother was relieved, deciding
definitively within days, that her daughter had misinterpreted a
tiff as you do in the the teething stage of a marriage.
Eric had never fathomed why Paul had
abandoned his first wife; the charming Nicola (a finer
judge of a decent malt than many a chap) and Nicola kept her
counsel – as did the kiddies.
The Truscotts, Chases and Donald and
Gillian, were visibly miffed (they had bought shares in her grief and
now had the bad grace to feel cheated) Percy and Lionel were
genuinely pleased.
Her father – and Lynne- remained
silent…
After the hurdle of their first night
together ( and a forensic wash and scrub) when she had felt closer to
Frances Hunt than she had any desire to be – it was easier to
continue as before.
Paul’s references to Frances were at
best, sporadic – but scarcely a day passed without an acerbic bon
mot at the expense of writer Aiden Cleghorn. These were
uncharitable at best and at worst, homophobic and scatological.
Cleghorn was the most terrible old Queen; a brown noser;
a shirt-lifter and worst of all; a bum burglar.
She did not encourage him, assuming
that the vituperation was a type of proxy exasperation with Frances.
She overheard Paul’s part of a phone
call to the Manager of University Bookseller, Rivett and Souter;
cancelling a bulk order of Billy Leaves Home.
No. We won’t be needing these
after all. Yes – I’m aware that I ordered sixty but that was on a
third party recommendation; hadn’t read the thing myself. Can’t
imagine what got into my colleague! It’s so simplistic – won’t
stretch our pupils a jot. I say – what about asking one of the
comps to take them off your hands? Ideal for the less ‘academically
challenged’, shall we say?
He was lying. As soon as Paul had
discovered (at their anniversary party) that Percy’s inamorata was
a member of the Cleghorn social circle, he had bought a copy of Billy
which he proceeded to study and annotate with exemplary
diligence.
He had not enjoyed the
Kerridge/Bellwether nuptials, precisely because his singular
assumption of Cleghorn’s attendance had been misplaced. And he had
asked Frances to use her ‘influence’ in encouraging her friend to
address the Oxbridge set.
In retrospect, Paul’s elopement with
Frances was exceptional not because Emma had been spurned in
favour of Miss Bates, but because he had never betrayed the
slightest smidgeon of interest in Frances Hunt.
Whereas in the case of Aiden
Cleghorn…..
She had found Billy Leaves Home
mildly interesting and An Oval Stone virtually unreadable,
so was ill-prepared for Paul’s new custom of referring to her as a
Cleghorn enthusiast at each and every opportunity, including a
Chase supper at the start of term.
The prospect of consuming baked
meats at the table of Chester Chase was insupportable...
She had not told Paul about Chester’s
conduct – but her unwanted caller had arrived at Paul’s request.
Her husband knew that Chester considered himself to be a sexual dog
and she knew that this particular dog had been soundly whipped to
kennel.
She could not – and would not
attend…….
Misgivings notwithstanding, she entered
the Chase apartment on the arm of her husband, nursing familiar
feelings of reluctant apprehension.
The air was heavy with the Chase aroma;
joss stick -plus-gauloises-plus cannabis.
And something else.
Dirt.
Her wine goblet was greasy; she dreaded
encountering a hair amidst the delicate leaves of mille feuille
with layers of spinach, cheese and salmon and she had gone to the
toilet four times before leaving Conyham Crescent to avoid visiting
the Chase bathroom and a consequent depression of appetite...
Chester, in fringed orange kaftan,
reclined, glass in hand, by a baby grand at the far end
of the room. She hoped to keep it that way and was thankful that the
supper was more of an informal reception than an intimate dinner. It
was really a chance for the bohemian alternative to the Chudleigh
matrons to make their mark at the start of term and the guests were
an eclectic mix of establishment (three Housemasters and their wives)
and fringe players (the German and Russian assistants) and several
new members of staff.
Three of the Chase children, Calliope,
Bertram and Lesbia, darted in and out of the room in
various stages of undress, addressing their parents by their
Christian names and displaying a predictable precocity.
This was, fortunately, no forum for
intimate and personal exchanges.
But as she talked holidays, camp
sites and the trial of in-laws with a tanned and freckled Betty,
she felt as naked as a stripper in a nunnery.
Everyone knew how Paul had spent his
holiday and she knew that everybody knew how he had spent it. Why oh
WHY had she signed up for another dose of this when she could have
closed the chapter; cut her losses and run?
The BBC has asked me to guest edit a
most cunning little programme, announced Dorian in her
distinctive Tallulah Bankhead meets Elizabeth Windsor voice.
Now do have another pork parcel Paul
– they are quite divine; positively ambrosial! No really – they
chased me all over Oxford last month - I had to spurn them in the
Bodleian! I mean, these formats can be frighteningly underwhelming
and one has to be a trifle cagey - but they were in such swoons over
my scribble that I weakened – with a trillion caveats. Now, Paul –
should I cancel? Be honest!!
Dorian was blatantly puffing the fact
that her atrocious treatise on female masturbation; Minerva’s
Itch, had finally attracted an obscure publisher specialising in
the type of thinly-disguised soft porn tricked out as feminist
intellectualism and customarily rejected by prestigious houses.
She was now regaling a wider audience;
amongst others, David; Chester; Choirmaster Wendell Rigby and
wife Tildy and Vernon Noyce, a new member of the
English Department.
She wondered whether Dorian would
actually have the gall to read from Minerva’s Itch and
decided that he odds were about sixty/ forty with the balance of
probabilities favouring a reading. Dorian was feeding and watering
guests; this served as the cover charge for the meal; it would be
mildly interesting to second guess her pretext.
Paul did not reply immediately.
She recalled intermittent attempts to
interest a publisher in his own literary efforts and the fact that
their wedding anniversary party had coincided with the arrival of
several rejection slips.
He had been scathing about the
commercial imperatives of the modern publisher but she sensed that
rejection rankled. Larry Prideaux, a university contemporary, had
been the surprise recipient of the Bellow prize for a first
novel; a 20th century re-casting of the Eden myth.
Paul did not approve.
Outrageous! Larry can’t even
understand what he reads! It’s purely because he’s Georgia
Prideaux’s nephew; her stuff’s tolerable if rather SAMEY -- but
Larry – tosser, tosser of the first water. Absolute, fucking
TOSSER.
It was pointless responding; he was
probably right.
She had never read Prideaux’s book,
but nepotism was as rife in the world of letters as in the corridors
of power. It was a detestable fact of life.
But in her husband’s case, the
publishers had made the correct call.
Paul’s poems were bad.
She kept quiet. She dispensed whisky;
performing in bed like a demented seal when rejection letters
polluted the atmosphere...
But her critical faculties, honed by Mr
Proudie; Lionel Kerridge and Professor Newbolt were infallible.
Paul’s cryptic verse could be summed up simply:
Mene mene tekel upharison
Weighed in the balance and found
wanting.
A radio programme – how exciting,
Mrs Chase, enthused English Departmental recruit, Vernon Noyce.
Chudeligh was his first post and a
turquoise silk cravat was his sole concession to the avant garde
propensities of his hosts. Otherwise, cavalry twills pressed at
knife edge; boots polished to military perfection and a Harris tweed
jacket with leather elbow patches denoted the uniform of a public
schoolmaster. Did he dress like this ‘off duty’? He must
have been all of 24 and she wondered whether he regarded the wearing
of jeans to be the especial prerogative of celluloid trusties like
John Wayne.
Minerva --- fascinating! Is it a
study of female intellectualism throughout the ages?
No – female wanking!
Chester was not sober and his
contribution sank like a stone. Nobody laughed. Vernon Noyce
shuffled and snuffled unhappily.
It’s a panel discussion format,
interposed Dorian in a voice now entirely redolent of Elizabeth
Windsor. On female independence and creativity; Aphra Benn,
Virginia Woolf, Vita ….
Fanny Hill! chuntered Chester.
Paul did not need encouragement.
Hmm… the miniaturists! I can see
why you’ve got reservations, Dorian. If they think they’ve got
you as THE APHRA BEHN person, they’ll just never get you on to talk
about George Eliot. Do you see? Perhaps it’s not too late to pull
out……. They can always get someone else in that slot…
Dorian changed course, biting into a
peach.
It was actually a very winsome
panel; Edna Pill, the acclaimed American feminist from
Sarah Lawrence; Brigg Dolby, fresh from his darling
production of Henry 5th with an
all female cast and, of course, My chum, Aiden Cleghorn.
Doesn’t he live locally?
offered Vernon Noyce, hoping to steer the conversation away from the
murky waters of female sexuality.
Stavely Forest, I believe, said
Chester, moving into pole position betwixt Tildy Rigby and Vernon.
Isn’t that correct, Paul? And
isn’t he rather a chum of yours – or a chum of a chum, shall we
say? And didn’t you ask your chum if her chum, Aiden, might be
persuaded to address our chums in the Oxbridge set? Such a lot of
chums, all being chummy together!
She turned to Betty, who would not meet
her eye. Chester had crossed the line between tipsy and drunk and
the challenge now was to extricate Paul without further
embarrassment. She pulled surreptitiously at his sleeve – but it
slipped from her grasp as Paul took a flute of champagne from the
tray proffered by Calliope.
Oh no – my wife is the Cleghorn
enthusiast, Ches, old chap. And I really don’t know where you’ve
got the idea we could have him at Chudleigh – in fact, the Oxbridge
group would probably be safe – I think he likes them younger, but
we have to think of their parents don’t we….?
Chester; a virtual Seville orange in
his ludicrous kaftan; had reached the level of intoxication where
social proprieties paled in comparison with the absolute necessity of
having the last word.
Parents, old chap and what about
WIVES, eh?! (aiming a playful punch in the region of Pauls’
midriff and treating her to an unpleasant smirk). And we’re all
CHUMS here aren’t we and what’s mine is yours and YOURS IS MINE –
and didn’t’ you try to pimp yours - wife, I mean while you were
pimping your poems to Cleghorn?
As they walked home, the stillness was
punctuated by an angry monologue from Paul on the twin evils of Chase
and the hapless Cleghorn who had made an ill fated pass at him after
a dinner party at Stavely Forest.
It was so awful darling, I didn’t
want to bore you with it – but the man made a beeline for me from
the moment I met him. I felt that Frances had procured me for him
--- I just couldn’t stay there a moment longer – I was like a
bond slave at the court of Caligula!
It was a terrible tale. In his
emotionally fragile state, following the first anniversary of a
second marriage, Paul had been assailed by psychological demons;
guilt over Nicola and the kiddies; doubts about his ability to
satisfy the hopes and dreams of his new young wife, and
recurrent flashbacks of maternal abuse at the hands of Lilias.
Surely she could recall the terrible nightmares to which he had been
prey before his breakdown?
(So that was his name for it….)
And that evening after a supper at
Bunter’s with the Truscotts when he insisted on taking the long
route home via the Custerway Suspension Bridge and had
lingered over the rail, debating whether or not to plunge to certain
death on the rocks below?
She had forgotten it…..…
His emotional fragility had been
ripe for exploitation by unscrupulous chancers like Cleghorn and his
procuress, Hunt. Thank goodness he had escaped their toils like
Prometheus Unbound and returned to safe haven with her…
And more in the same vein. He had found
a story and was sticking to it, she might have observed, had she not
decided when she took him back that
These deeds must not be thought
after these ways …so it will make us mad.
Life therefore followed its usual
courses with a few small if significant, emendations.
Apart from Chudleigh 3 Line Whip events
such as Founder’s Day; the Headmaster’s Garden Party and the
Oxbridge Leavers' Supper, they avoided Chester and Dorian Chase.
This was welcome, because they were detestable; but also because she
had convinced herself that Dorian knew about her encounter with
Chester and was laughing at her.
Secondly, Paul’s trendy new clothes
had mysteriously followed An Oval Stone and Billy Leaves
Home into the refuse bin. He was once more underplaying his
charms in flapping flares, baggy jumpers and frayed button-down
shirts. His shoes too had seen better days.
When he wanted her to oblige him –
such as telephoning Nicola to postpone an access visit with the
kiddies in favour of a pleasure jaunt to Necker’s:
I’m so sorry – Paul has gone
down with the most awful dose of ‘flu; it really would be so
terrible if Verity caught it…
he had a habit of referring to his
psychiatric breakdown and stressing his reliance
upon her understanding.
Again, it was easier to comply – just
as it was convenient to dismiss her clear-eyed
alternative explanation for the
events of the summer; that Cleghorn with his access to
publishers had been the spur to an idyll in Stavely Forest; that the
writer’s known sexual proclivities had prompted the purchase of the
enticing apparel and that for Paul, sex as a bartering tool was fair
game – regardless of gender.
The elderly male bookseller who had
relinquished a cat and an Edward Thomas first edition in exchange for
a fumble came to mind. But clearly Cleghorn’s literary
scruples had mastered his sexual desires – hence the extraordinary
venom evinced by her husband at the mere mention of the writer’s
name.
Who, indeed could say? She had decided
to stick at her marriage.
By Christmas she was pregnant.
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