A Bouquet of Barbed Wire (16 page)

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Sarah said, ‘Shall I make coffee or get us a drink or something? Would your friends mind?’ He was so silent that she wondered if he had fallen asleep and as usual she was beginning to feel restless now the languid phase had passed. In a little while she would be hungry. This was the unfailing, predictable pattern and it was reassuring that this still remained, for there seemed little else to be sure of. She had not expected anything to happen between them, not expected to be here, most of all not expected to feel so much. She could not remember such immediate involvement with anyone since the boy in the sixth form (when she was in the fifth form) who had touched her up pretty thoroughly behind the science block one dark night at a school dance. She had adored him after that, as a god (for surely anyone who could produce such sensations must be a god?) and waited, trembling, scarcely breathing, for him to approach her again for a date. But he never did. Term ended and he left and she never knew if he was embarrassed, disgusted, indifferent, or merely absent-minded. It had taught her a sharp lesson, intensified by other later lessons, yet somehow perhaps the most important because it was the first, because she was only fifteen. The glorious sensations behind the science block, her gratitude to him for evoking them, her desperation to go out with him—all this she had obviously failed to transmit; or, if transmitted, it simply did not interest him. Perhaps he
regarded her as cheap. Perhaps he laughed about her to his friends. (This thought was too terrible to contemplate: that he might be boasting of what she had ‘let’ him do, even now while she was recalling the beauty of it all.) Lying awake at night crying—but softly so as not to alert her parents—or staring at him in Assembly, willing him to smile at her, writing his name on pieces of paper to admire the sheer poetry of it (and then tearing them up) walking a discreet distance behind him and his friends to admire what seemed to her the easy grace of his movements, so casual, so self-possessed—all this was clearly ridiculous and achieved no good at all. She had made the mistake of caring. Not to care was the answer. If you did not care they came running, all the people you did not care about. They jostled each other to dance with you, walk with you, buy you chocolates and take you to the cinema—one had even left flowers on her doorstep and then run away—and all you had to do was permit the occasional kiss (or, later, make love). As long as you did not care, back they came. So what was she doing now, letting all this feeling creep in? For it was not, she decided, what you
did
behind the science block that counted, it was how you felt. If you did not care, they could not hurt you; in fact they would not even try. For eight years this policy had worked for her; what on earth made her think it was safe to abandon it now?

She turned her head on the pillow to look at him and said softly, ‘Peter Eliot Manson.’

‘What?’

‘I thought you were asleep.’ It was nice to speak as tenderly as she felt. She had forgotten how nice it was.

‘No.’ He opened his eyes and they gazed at each other. ‘Why did you say my full name like that?’

‘I don’t know. Well, I’ve typed it often enough but I’ve never said it.’ And making love she had not called him anything: while the ‘Sarah’s’ multiplied, she had not called him Peter or darling, or anything.

‘Well, now you have.’

‘Yes.’ She considered it. ‘It’s a lovely name. Very formal. Rather Victorian. I like it. But I don’t feel it’s mine to use.’

‘You don’t know me well enough, hm?’

They smiled.

‘Well, in a way, no. And tomorrow it’s Mr. Manson again so I better not get in bad habits.’

Tomorrow was Cassie and Salcombe. Tomorrow was office. Tomorrow was reality, making now into only last night. ‘Don’t remind me,’ he said.

She said easily, ‘Oh, it will be all right, you’ll see. Don’t worry. And I love the way you say Sarah.’

‘Sarah.’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re a beautiful girl, Sarah.’

‘Am I? Did I please you?’

‘Yes. Very much.’

‘You pleased me too. Very much.’

Somehow this exchange frightened them both: it was too absolute, it seemed final, marking the end of something. Sarah said, ‘Well. Shall I get us a drink or some coffee? I asked you before but you didn’t answer so I thought you were asleep.’

‘No. I was thinking.’

‘Not sad thoughts. Please. I promise you it’s all quite all right.’

He said, ‘No, not sad thoughts.’ He chose his words carefully. ‘I was thinking I care for you.’

‘You don’t have to say that, you know.’

‘No. I know.’ Strange how tenderness tipped into anger.

‘But I care for you, too. That’s the trouble. I’ve broken a rule.’

‘What rule?’

‘My own rule.’ She stroked his shoulder. It was funny seeing him naked and tousled, and remembering his office
suit, his hair immaculately brushed. She was glad he had plenty of hair. ‘My rule not to care.’

‘What kind of a rule is that?’

She smiled, feeling sad. “The first law of survival. Don’t you know it?’

‘It sounds like death to me.’

‘Does it?’ She sat up. She suddenly felt much older than he, and protective. ‘Then you must be very brave.’

He put a hand on her arm. ‘Don’t be cynical, Sarah, it doesn’t suit you.’

‘Doesn’t it?’

‘No.’

‘Why, because I’m so
young?
That’s got nothing to do with it. I know about me. If I care I get hurt and behave badly.’

‘I’m not going to hurt you.’

‘No, of course not.’

‘I mean that.’

‘I know you do.’

‘And I can’t imagine that you could ever behave badly.’

She sighed. ‘Why do you think I’m so nice? You don’t know me at all.’

He said seriously, ‘Are you wishing we hadn’t done this?’

‘Oh no.
No.’

‘Then why all the sadness?’ He pulled her back, down to him and wrapped his arms round her. She buried her head in his shoulder, wanting to hide. He said, ‘Darling, listen,’ and she stiffened, ever so slightly, at the word. ‘You’re lovely and precious and you’ve made me so happy I can never repay you.
Please
don’t be sad, or I shall feel I’ve taken advantage and behaved like an old-fashioned cad. Last night I called myself names all the way home. If I can’t make you happy all the names will be true.’

She said, ‘Oh, you can make me happy, you have. You
do,’ her voice muffled against his skin. ‘It’s just—I never imagined this happening.’

‘Neither did I. But now that it has we must make it work. We mustn’t make anyone unhappy, even ourselves. That’s my rule, if you like, though I’ve only just thought of it. Heads everyone wins and tails nobody loses. Isn’t that a good rule?’

‘That’s the best kind of rule.’

They kissed. Sarah said, ‘By the way, you still haven’t told me whose flat this is.’

He hesitated. The temptation to tell the truth was strong, perhaps to set a seal on their relationship. But the temptation to lie was stronger, representing safety and self-preservation. ‘Just friends of mine. No one you know.’

‘A couple? Married and all that?’ She sat up.

‘Yes.’

‘But they don’t mind? Us in their bed and everything?’

‘Well, we’re not exactly
in
it.’ They were lying on top of the bedspread and he had been careful to spread a towel.

‘No, but the principle’s the same. The married are generally on the side of the married, aren’t they?’

He wondered how she knew that. ‘They’re my friends, not Cassie’s.’ Deeper and deeper in. It felt odd to speak her name in these circumstances. Unlucky.

‘And you’re sure they won’t mind?’

He felt irritated by her questioning and his own thoughts. ‘I told you. Why go on about it?’

‘Sorry.’ She sounded very innocent. ‘But it’s odd to be in their flat, in their bed, and not know anything about them. It makes me feel strange. I feel I
ought
to know more. For instance are they young or old, happy or unhappy?’

‘Young and happy.’

She studied his face. ‘You sounded bitter when you said that. Do you envy them?’

‘Yes, I suppose I do.’ He had been mad to bring her here
and mad, having brought her, not to lie properly and make a thorough job of it.

She got up, wandered over to the dressing-table, smoothed her reflected hair and opened a drawer. ‘Don’t,’ he said sharply, a reflex.

She stared at him in the mirror. ‘Why not?’

‘I’d rather you didn’t, that’s all.’

She said slowly, ‘It’s your daughter’s flat, isn’t it? I think I knew all the time.’

P
RUE LAY
in the sun. She had pictured herself on a crowded beach, flaunting her stomach, which was developing a most gratifying curve. But Gavin had neglected to tell her that the cottage was not by the sea and she had not thought to consult a map. So she lay in the garden instead, on a small patch of ground they had cleared of long grass, and watched herself turning brown and glistening with oil. There seemed to her something inexpressibly voluptuous about sunbathing while pregnant. She even chose to lie on the ground, with a cushion under her back, rather than in a deckchair. She wanted contact with the earth. When she closed her eyes and the bright colours chased across her eyelids, she felt at peace on the ground, as if she and the child had come home. Earth Mother—Mother Earth, she chanted softly to herself when Gavin was out of earshot. She felt she was doing herself positive good, just as much as by absorbing vitamins, but she did not want to appear ridiculous.

Gavin was very brown, too. It had not taken long, given their honeymoon tan, for they both had tough skins and could spend most of their time in the sun. She thought she had never seen him so attractive. He even waited on her a little now that her pregnancy was actually visible. And rushed to put his hand on her stomach when the baby kicked. She loved him.

All the same, she was restless. It was a perfect existence: sun, food, wine, sleep, love. She could not have improved on
it. Yet something was lacking. She felt she had opted out: that somewhere the real world continued without her. She was afraid that when she got back to it, it might have changed unrecognisably, away from her influence. She liked to remain in touch with things; she did not believe that everything would continue properly, lacking her supervision.

There were insects in the long grass near her, bigger or brighter, or both, than the ones in England. She squinted at them through half-closed eyes, feeling like Gulliver. Occasionally one would alight on her or run across her, which she rather liked, although she worried a bit that the sun-oil might have an adverse effect on its feet. Gavin admired her: to her amazement he thought she was very brave not to make a fuss. Apparently his aunt had always screamed if an insect of any description came near her. And he admitted once having placed a beetle on the pillow of a girl friend he had wanted to get rid of: it was easier than telling her to go. Prue had felt a strange thrill at this story, the simple cruelty of it, and the logic. But she thought it unfair that he should admire her courage in the garden. She did not disillusion him, but no courage was required to accept what did not worry you. She had noticed before that often you were given credit for things that took no effort at all; the really difficult things passed unnoticed and unpraised. He had been overly impressed by her forgiveness over the black eye incident, too. She thought this proved that she knew him better than he knew her, which rather pleased her. It was fun to keep a secret self, dark and mysterious, tucked away inside her; it made her feel powerful and important. Doubly pregnant, in fact.

He came towards her now, out of the house, naked and carrying a tray. They both sunbathed naked in the private little garden, though sometimes she felt the need of a bra as her breasts were growing heavy. She laughed now, at the sight of him: the image of a nude waiter was irresistible. He had two tall yellow drinks on the tray in long thin glasses
clinking with ice. They were making their own citrons pressés. In fact they hardly went out: every day to the village for fruit and vegetables, cheese and eggs, bread and fresh milk, but never to a restaurant. They had no inclination, they could not afford it and there was nowhere to go. They had brought all they could in their luggage: hardly any clothes but packets of soup, coffee, tea, tins of fish, and cartons of cereal. They had more or less stopped eating meat, and their cigarette consumption had dwindled: it was too hot to smoke. But they drank gallons of wine bought locally and stored in the larder. She had never felt so healthy in her life. And in the night, when she woke, it was always to thoughts of the baby, growing firm and strong inside her. She tried to remember the diagrams she had seen and wondered which stage it was at. It would be all hers. Her child. Hers and Gavin’s.

She sat up and took the tall lemon glass and sipped it gratefully. Rivulets of sweat, having collected in the crease, now ran down her arm. Her knees if she pressed them together left little damp patches. Her head swam with the sudden movement of sitting up. She was dazed with heat.

Gavin sat beside her with his glass in his hand and they both stared idly at the cottage, blindingly white in the sun. She said, ‘Fancy living here all the year round.’

‘They don’t; they rent it out.’

‘Well, you know what I mean. Fancy
owning
it.’

He shrugged. ‘Why own when you can borrow?’

The lemon was very cold and sharp. The sourness made her mouth contract. ‘You’ve got some useful friends.’

‘Yeah.’

She studied him. Black hair and black eyebrows; curly black hair from shoulders to navel and a sprinkling on his back; tough black hairy legs. And the whole of him so brown. He was more like a monkey than ever. An ape. Or a
gorilla. A beautiful monkey. (She wished she knew more about monkeys.) She began to laugh.

‘What’s the joke?’

She said the first thing that came into her head. ‘I was thinking I’d like to telephone home.’

‘What the hell for?’

‘Oh, not parents.
Our
home. The flat. Just to see if it’s still there. I’d like to hear our phone ringing and know it still exists, it seems so far away.’ She wondered if he would make love to her soon. It was really too hot, though; they usually waited till evening. But she liked to do it in the garden. She almost wished there were other houses nearby—not too near, but with just the possibility, no more, just the uncertainty of being overlooked and never knowing for sure. That would have done something to her, she decided.