(1990) Sweet Heart (12 page)

Smoke from the barbecue drifted over the table and Bob Dylan’s voice sang softly from the speaker Tom had run from the drawing room. He always played old records on his birthday.

‘Bats bonk upside down. Did you know that?’ She heard Richard Howarth’s voice, dimly, through the chatter.

‘You’re very brave, entertaining so soon,’ said
Michael Ohm, sitting on her right. His Zapata moustache seemed to be getting thicker each time she saw him, as if to compensate for the widening bald patch in the centre of his head. He pushed his red-framed glasses back up his arched nose. One of Tom’s partners. Trendy. Lawyers were starting to look like architects. Architects were looking like bankers. Change. Life shifted silently beneath you like sand.

She shivered. The heat of the Indian summer day had gone and a damp chill filled the darkness. People were putting on pullovers. Rubbing their hands. They would have to move inside soon.

Richard Howorth, Tom’s best man, was here and his girlfriend, Louisa, an interior decorator. John Orpen, Tom’s accountant, and his wife, Sue, were trying to prise conversation out of an extremely drunk Julian Garfield-Hampsen. Charley had suggested inviting Hugh for Laura, and Tom had thought it a good idea to invite Julian and Zoe as well; she was glad he was keen to make friends with the neighbours.

Laura was ignoring Hugh. Matchmaking for her was always difficult. She did not seem to know what she wanted herself. She had chucked away a marriage that could have been salvaged without ever really explaining to Charley why, and had fought fiercely for custody of her two girls, yet sent them to boarding school because she needed to concentrate on her shop.

Michael Ohm wiped soup from his moustache. ‘How do you find it here compared to London?’ he asked.

‘Strange,’ Charley replied. ‘But it’s nice getting to know Mother Nature. We actually had our own eggs for breakfast this morning — well, egg — but it’s a start. We’re planting all sorts of vegetables. Some of the local shops are hysterical. The grocer in the village sells only one kind of bread — sliced white. Can you believe it?’

‘Geller is a con man! He’s a complete fraud!’

The outburst came from Hugh Boxer at the other end of the table. He sat up in his chair, shoulders hunched inside his crumpled linen jacket, his eyes blazing fiercely, black crevasses scoring the gaunt skin of his face.

‘How can you say that?’ Zoe Garfield-Hampsen piped heatedly in her little girl voice, her breasts almost popping out of her low-cut dress in indignation. ‘I’ve seen him with my own eyes. I’ve seen him do it!’

One hurricane lamp flickered, died for a second, came on again roaring fiercely, then Bob Dylan stopped abruptly in mid-chord; the table dimmed. Charley looked at the house. The lights had gone out. Then both the hurricane lamps went out as well, plunging them into darkness. She felt a blast of cold air as if a freezer door had been opened behind her. Someone howled; a ghostly wail.

‘Mains trip,’ Tom said. ‘I’ll do it. Won’t take a sec.’ There was the sound of a glass smashing. ‘Ooops, bugger,’ he cursed.

John Orpen clicked on his lighter and lifted the glass lid of the hurricane lamp in front of him. ‘The wick’s too low.’ He relit it and turned it up.

Bob Dylan started singing again, several lights in the house came back on together and everyone cheered. Tom reappeared. ‘We’ve had the place rewired,’ he said, ‘but they’ve done something wrong.’

‘The trip’s probably been set too sensitive,’ Michael Ohm murmured.

‘The soup was absolutely brilliant,’ Sue said. ‘Can you give me the recipe?’

Charley stood and began clearing the table.

Laura followed her into the kitchen with an armful of plates which she balanced precariously on the stack Charley put down. She looked at the clothes rack on the pulley and tugged the cord. The rack rose up and down,
then wobbled above them. Charley noticed she looked sloshed, and was surprised: Laura rarely drank much.

‘S’beautiful place. You’re so lucky! I’m incredibly envious!’ She pulled the cord again, mildly irritating Charley, and the rack rose up and down with a creak. ‘So tell me, how did it go with Ernest Gibbon? What did you think of him?’

Shadows from the rails of the rack swung across the floor as Charley loaded plates into the dishwasher. ‘I thought he was a creep.’

‘He’s sweet!’ Laura slurred indignantly. ‘S’lovely man!’

‘Tom’s listened to the tapes — bits of them anyway. He says he was feeding me with thoughts.’

‘He’d never do that. He’s got a terrific reputation.’

‘It struck me as a good con. He leaves you feeling terrified, so you want to go back to find out what happens next.’

Laura tugged the cord once more. ‘No, I don’t think he’s like that.’

There was a wailing screech then a bang like a clap of thunder in the room.

Laura jumped back and crashed into the fridge.

Charley stared in shocked silence at the clothes rack; it was lying on the floor between them.

‘Sorry,’ Laura said, looking lamely at the cord. ‘Forgot to hook it back.’

Tom turned the pork chops and sausages over on the barbecue. Fat spat and sizzled on the red coals. He prodded a couple of the jacket potatoes, gave each of the sweetcorns a half turn, blinking against the searing heat and the smoke, stood back unsteadily and had a gulp of his wine. He could see the glow of the lamps and the shadowy figures at the table fifty or so yards away, but the darkness and the booze made it hard to make out much more.

A pair of hands slipped around his waist. ‘Hi,’ she said, quietly, simply. He smelled her perfume, felt the light pressure of her hands.

‘Not quite done yet,’ he said, turning round.

Laura’s eyes were locked on his, her mouth smiling quizzically in the faint glow of the coals. ‘I like looking at you,’ she whispered.

He smiled, embarrassed.

‘I often see you across a room at a party, looking at me. I like it when you look at me.’

Her fingertips brushed against his, then her fingers curled around his, squeezing them gently. He glanced over towards the table. Shapes, just shadowy shapes; he and Laura would be shadowy shapes too. He hoped.

Laura stretched up on tiptoe and placed her lips against his, soft lips, much softer than Charley’s, he thought, before pulling back, taking her wrist and leading her behind a tree. They kissed, longer this time, and he pressed her against the tree, filled with a sudden urge of drunken lust. He slipped his hand inside her jacket, inside her blouse, ran his fingers over her breasts while she ground her pelvis against his growing hardness. He drew away and squinted mischievously at her. ‘What are we doing?’

‘Having a snog.’ She smiled petulantly then grasped the back of his head and kissed him again. His hand wandered under her skirt, over the nylon of her tights and the smooth skin of her stomach, then slid inside her tights and over the bare skin of her buttocks. He started trying to pull her tights down.

She shook her head, still keeping her lips to his, murmuring. ‘Uh oh, no!’

He broke away and glanced furtively round the tree. ‘We could have a quick knee trembler.’

‘No!’

He fumbled with her tights.

‘Stop it!’ she said. ‘I smell burning.’

He turned to the barbecue. Flames were leaping up around the chops. ‘Shit!’

‘I think I’d better get back and join the party,’ Laura said. ‘Which way’s the loo?’

‘The least grotty one’s at the top of the stairs, turn left, second door on the right.’

They began to sing happy birthday as Charley brought the cake out. The baker in the village had made it. There was a legal-looking scroll on the top and the wording ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY TOM’ visible through a forest of candles. The wind blew most of them out and Tom the rest. There was a roar of applause and raucous shouts of ‘Speech!’

His face became a flickering blurr.

She felt a deep sense of unease. The smell of the barbecue disturbed her. Burning embers. The flames licking at the inky darkness. Silence pressed in around her. The smiling faces and the shouts and laughter faded.

She had been here before. Seen flames here before.

She saw the old man stumbling through the woods towards her. The girl climbing up towards the rock with the tin in her hand, crying.

‘Penny for your thoughts.’

She looked round, startled. Hugh was sitting in Michael Ohm’s seat and was grinning at her.

‘Sorry,’ she said. She shivered, rubbed her arms. ‘It’s cold. Do you think we should move inside?’

‘Soon.’

‘Do you remember what you were saying in the pub, Hugh, about old spirits?’

‘Yes,’ he said, taking out his pipe. ‘OK if I —?’

‘I love the smell, she said. ‘Have you ever been regressed into past lives?’

‘Under hypnosis?’

‘Yes.’

He bit the stem and cocked his head slightly, his eyes narrowing. He lowered his voice. ‘I told you, there are a lot of amateurs around. Don’t get involved.’

‘I thought you believed in reincarnation.’

‘I don’t believe in playing games with the occult.’

‘Games?’

Wisps of dry ice were curling through her veins. Hugh was looking around uneasily. ‘Sorry about the car,’ he said, abruptly changing the subject.

Car. Triumph. Car. Gum. She put her hand out to her glass and it was shaking so much she nearly knocked it over. Her cheeks felt red.

‘I ought to pay you a fee for parking,’ he said.

‘No. Not at all. It’s — you can leave it, really.’ There was a minty taste in her mouth. Gum.

There was a thud. A clatter. Hugh bent and picked up her fork.

‘Oh, thanks —’ She wiped it with her napkin. ‘Please, leave the car for as long as you like.’

‘A few more days would be helpful.’ He lit his pipe with an old Zippo. A gust whipped hot ash from it and he clamped his hand over the bowl. ‘Have you done much exploring around the area yet?’

‘No, not really.’

‘This is a very interesting part of the world. It’s riddled with old energy lines. Used to be considered quite fey.’

‘Witches on broomsticks?’

‘That sort of thing.’ He grinned and sucked on his pipe. ‘Have you been to the Wishing Rocks?’

‘Where are they?’

‘It’s a pretty walk. You go up through the woods the far side of the lake, take the right fork after the marshy bit and carry on.’

‘Why are they called Wishing Rocks?’

‘They’re pagan holy stones — I don’t know how they got them up there, unless they were hewn out of the hill — and the locals had a superstition that if you wanted something really badly you took the rocks a present.’

‘A sacrifice?’

His pipe had gone out. ‘No, not a living sacrifice, but it had to be something personal.’ His lighter clanked and he sucked the flame down into the bowl of the pipe. She sniffed discreetly as the thick blue smoke drifted over her head. ‘And if you wanted your love to be eternal you engraved your names on the Sweethearts’ Rock. If your love ever faded, you took the rock a token and it made everything OK again.’

She was silent for a moment. ‘What does that rock look like?’ she asked.

‘You can’t miss it. It’s shaped like a heart.’

Charley slept badly. The cacophony of birds and the roaring of the water and the churning thoughts in her mind kept her awake.

Tom lay awake too, tossing beside her. He got up and went to the lavatory. A while later he got up again, went into the bathroom and came back with a glass that was fizzing.

‘You OK?’

The bed sagged as he sat down. ‘Jesus. It was quieter in London. Can’t we shut those bloody birds up?’

The sky was grey, stormy, and a strong wind was blowing. There was the clatter of a bicycle and tyres scrunched on gravel. Ben ran to the bedroom door, barking.

‘Newspapers,’ Tom said.

‘Did you enjoy last night?’

‘Good fun.’ He screwed up his eyes.

‘You and Laura were talking a lot.’

He stirred the Alka Seltzer with the handle of his toothbrush, drank some and grimaced.

‘What were you talking about?’

He was silent for a moment, then mumbled. ‘Nothing in particular.’

The window rattled and a gust of chilly air swept across her face. ‘The weather’s not so nice for your cricket,’ she said.

‘It might clear up.’

‘What are you doing this morning?’

‘I thought I’d start stripping the drawing room. There’s no point in painting anything while they’re messing around with the floorboards.’

Charley yawned and looked around the bare walls and the raw beams and the low, uneven ceiling. It still felt strange in this room, felt each morning as if she were waking in a hotel and not
home
.

‘Back to work for you tomorrow,’ she said. ‘End of holiday.’

Tom nodded. ‘Are you in London this week?’

‘Tomorrow. I’m going to see mother, and I said I’d help Laura for a couple of hours. The money’s useful,’ she added defensively.

‘It doesn’t even cover your train fare.’ He went to close the window.

‘I’ve seen some very inexpensive kitchen units. I meant to tell you.’

‘Is there any point at the moment? We might as well wait.’

‘It’s so dreary in there. It’s going to be years before —’

He ducked through into the bathroom. The bath taps gushed then the sound changed to the hiss of the shower.

She raised her voice. ‘I really wish I was still working.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I’m fed up not having any money. I’m guilty all the time about spending anything.’

He poked his head through the door. ‘It’s not forever. After we —’ He hesitated. ‘You know, have kids, you can go back again.’

‘Not to my old job.’

‘Your old job was killing you.’

‘I liked it.’

She had liked the pressure. Her boss, who designed fashion accessories, had been a workaholic and it was infectious. She was expected in the office at seven and rarely got home before eight. They travelled somewhere in Europe at least once a fortnight, to the States twice a year and occasionally to the Far East, buying, exhibiting, looking. It had been fun. And well paid.

‘A couple of new units and a lick of paint and the kitchen’ll be fine until we can afford to do it properly.’