A Stairway to Paradise (4 page)

Alex, seeing this, smiled back. ‘Go on,’ he said, ‘be a devil.’ She laughed. He took a bottle of white wine out of the refrigerator. ‘This do?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ she said.

He put it on the table and fetched two glasses and sat down. Then he poured it out, rather ceremoniously. He held up his own glass. ‘
À la vos beaux yeux
,’ he said. There was only the smallest hint, the palest and most ghostly hint, of irony in his tone.

What a horrible man, thought Barbara. What a nasty Mr Rochester it is. She smiled again.

Why is she always smiling, Alex thought vaguely. He frowned and looked around the room.

‘By the way,’ he said, ‘do help yourself to anything while you’re here, of course—anything you fancy. Drink in that cupboard, more wine under the stairs, food—you know where that is—did Claire leave you some money for shopping if you need anything? Good, let me know if you run out. Anything else you need? You know how everything works, don’t you—yes— know where everything is? Know how the video works and so on? Well, Percy can work that for you. Or Marguerite. How were they today? Yes, they seem perfectly happy. Well, this is terribly good of you, really.’

‘Not at all,’ said Barbara. ‘It’s a pleasure.’

‘Good,’ said Alex. ‘Good.’

Barbara got up. ‘I wasn’t sure what you might want to do about dinner,’ she said. ‘With Claire not here. I ate with the children. But I kept you some of this in case. Cauliflower cheese. It just needs heating up.’

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I say, that’s very thoughtful of you.’

‘It’s nothing,’ said Barbara. ‘Shall I put it in the oven for you now?’

‘Well, I suppose,’ said Alex. ‘Why not. Thank you.’

‘Give it about twenty minutes,’ said Barbara. ‘And thank you for the drink. I think I’ll go upstairs now and read for a while.’

She was achingly homesick. Now that the children were lost to sleep and Claire altogether absent she felt merely strange and unhappy here. I hate it here, she thought. I hate this house.

She put her head politely around the door to the sitting-room before she went to bed. ‘I just came to say good night,’ she said.

‘Oh, right, yes,’ said Alex. ‘Good night. And thank you for everything.’

‘Good night,’ said Barbara. And retreated.

Alex switched on the telly and watched
Newsnight
. When it was over he switched it off quickly in order to avoid the
Late Show
title sequence. That howling fucking wolf, he thought; says it all. He sat staring at the blank screen for a long, long time. She’s beautiful, he thought. I hadn’t noticed before: she’s beautiful. Extraordinary to think that this beautiful girl was here, in his house, sleeping under his roof, looking after his children: completely extraordinary: what a rum do, he thought. And then he went to bed.

9

‘We had bangers tonight,’ said Barbara. ‘There are still some left, shall I cook them for you?’

‘Oh, you mustn’t bother about me,’ said Alex, ‘really. I can manage for myself. You’ve done quite enough already.’

‘It’s nothing,’ said Barbara.

This was the Tuesday night.

‘Look,’ she said, turning on the grill. ‘I’ll put them on for you, and you can turn them and finish them off.’

‘Fine,’ said Alex. ‘Right.’

‘And there’s potato salad in the fridge,’ said Barbara, ‘if you fancy it.’

‘Oh, good,’ said Alex.

‘Etcetera,’ said Barbara.

‘Yes, fine,’ said Alex.

‘So,’ she said, ‘I’ll leave you in peace—’

‘Listen,’ said Alex, ‘do stay down here and watch television if you like, or whatever—you won’t be disturbing me.’

‘No, really,’ said Barbara. ‘I’d really rather read.’

‘Well, if you’d rather,’ said Alex. ‘But please don’t feel—’

‘No,’ said Barbara. ‘Please don’t worry. I’m fine, truly.’

‘Yes, well,’ said Alex.

‘I’ll see you later,’ said Barbara.

She came to say good night as she had the night before; he watched
Newsnight
again and turned off the howling fucking wolf again; and he stared at the blank screen again, and thought about how beautiful she was, how beautiful.

On Wednesday night there was lasagne.

‘There’s plenty left over,’ she said. ‘Shall I put it in the oven for you?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That would be kind.’

When she had closed the oven door she stood there, hesitant. ‘Would you mind if I joined you to watch the
Late Show
tonight,’ she said. ‘I’d hate to miss Claire’s thing.’

‘Oh!’ he said, taken by surprise. ‘By all means, no, watch by all means—anything you like.
Claire
’
s
thing? I hadn’t actually realised—’

‘Scunthorpe,’ she said. ‘There’s an item tonight about the Scunthorpe Festival.’

‘Oh, of course,’ said Alex, not batting an eyelid. ‘Scunthorpe. Must watch that.’

‘Well, I’ll see you later,’ said Barbara.

‘Yes, whenever you like,’ said Alex. ‘Come early and catch
Newsnight
. Make a night of it.’

‘Yes, I’ll see,’ said Barbara. Nasty Mr Rochester.

He writhed inwardly throughout Claire’s Scunthorpe piece. Fifteen minutes seemed an era. It was, by chance, the concluding item; he switched off the set—‘unless there’s something else—?’ ‘No, not at all, do switch off ’—and sat down again.

Barbara got up. ‘That was nice,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ he said, still writhing. ‘Nice.’

‘Well—’ she said.

I want her, he thought.
I want her
. He felt that if this was wanting, he had never wanted before.

‘I say,’ he said, ‘I wondered—shall I bring something back for supper tomorrow night? I can get home in time for the kids’ tea if I step on it. Do you like fish and chips? There’s rather a good place nearby. The brats are mad about fish and chips, the brats are.’

‘Yes,’ said Barbara. ‘That would be terrific, actually. Thank you.’

‘It’s no trouble,’ said Alex.

10

The day had been warm, an echo of the summer just gone, and the evening was still mild; at Percy’s brilliant suggestion they ate the fish and chips in the garden. He and Marguerite ran back and forth with glasses and napkins and plates. ‘Is this a party?’ asked Percy. ‘Is this a party?’

Afterwards Alex played
pétanque
with the children. When they were in their baths he came downstairs again and into the kitchen. Barbara was sitting at the table writing. She looked up. ‘I’m just making a shopping list,’ she told him, as if she thought it necessary to explain her presence there. ‘I have to get a few things—I promised the children we’d make a cake tomorrow after school. For Claire. To welcome her back. I just have to get a few things—’

‘Oh, yes, right,’ said Alex. ‘Carry on. Are you sure you don’t mind? It’s awfully good of you. Well beyond the call of duty.’

‘No, it’s nothing,’ said Barbara. ‘I want to.’

‘Chocolate cake,’ said Alex, flatly. He spoke almost as if prompted from Beyond.

Barbara stared at him. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘How did you know?’

Their identities seemed to have merged in a moment of almost sickeningly intense communion; and then reason suddenly returned.

‘Oh, of course—the children must have told you,’ she said.

‘No,’ he replied. His face was grave; almost sad. ‘No,’ he said, ‘as a matter of fact, they didn’t. Didn’t mention it at all. Can’t think where I got the idea.’

‘Oh, well,’ said Barbara, ‘I suppose, after all, it’s most people’s first choice.’

‘Yes, probably,’ said Alex. That moment of terrible communion was far behind them. ‘Have a drink?’ he said.

‘I’ll just look at the children first,’ said Barbara.

She came back after a while. ‘They’re ready to be kissed good night,’ she told him.

He went upstairs and she poured herself a glass of wine. She was sipping at it when he returned; she was thinking, only two more nights, and this one’s half-done, only two more nights, thank God.

‘Let’s go into the sitting-room,’ he said. ‘Unless you’ve anything else planned for the evening?’

‘No,’ she said, ‘as it happens I haven’t.’

They sat on the sofa opposite the blank television screen.

‘Anything you fancy watching?’ said Alex. ‘You only have to say.’

‘No, really,’ said Barbara. ‘But don’t let me stop you—’

‘No,’ said Alex. ‘I—won’t you have some more?’ He picked up the wine bottle.

I’ll have another glass, thought Barbara, to show willing, and then I can escape.

‘I don’t quite remember,’ said Alex, ‘how it is that you and Claire seem to know each other—you’re not in her line of work, are you?’ God forbid, God forbid. Wait for it now.

‘No,’ said Barbara. ‘We met at the yoga class.’

Oh, God, but you do take the biscuit: every single time: yoga! Come back the contemporary novel, all is forgiven!

‘Yoga?’ said Alex. ‘I didn’t know Claire did
yoga
. Whatever next?’

‘Well,’ said Barbara, ‘I don’t know if she does still. But she did.’

‘Good God,’ said Alex. ‘When was that?’

‘Well, about a year ago,’ said Barbara. ‘Yes, just a year. I was living in Islington then and there was a yoga class at the adult education place. Tuesday mornings. And we met there. And we just, you know, got to know each other. I used to come back here for lunch sometimes afterwards. Sometimes I went with Claire to fetch the children from school—I was still here once or twice when you got back from work.’ She paused, but Alex said nothing. ‘And I came to babysit one evening because it was one of Astrid’s evenings off.’ She paused again. ‘That was when you were in Belfast,’ she said shyly.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Alex. ‘When I was in Belfast. Dangerman.’

‘Yes,’ said Barbara. And suddenly she was almost overwhelmed by the desire to turn to him, to put her arms around him: suddenly she wanted to be next to him, to feel all his warmth. God, what on earth had possessed her? She must be sloshed: how utterly absurd!

‘So that’s how I more or less got to know the children,’ she said. Her voice sounded weak and distant to her ear. ‘So—’

‘Yes, I see,’ said Alex. ‘Well, they’ve fallen on their feet, I must say.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I mean, jolly nice for them to have you running around after them and so forth. Cakes and whatnot. It really is exceedingly good of you. I’m very seriously obliged to you.’

‘But they’re sweeties,’ said Barbara. ‘It’s a pleasure.’

‘Oh, do you really think so?’ He seemed genuinely pleased by the compliment.

‘Yes, of course. Don’t you?’

He laughed. ‘I’m prejudiced,’ he said.

She thought for a moment. ‘Percy had some homework today,’ she said.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Alex rather vaguely. He was pouring himself another glass; ‘Yes, that school of theirs is very progressive. Infant noses to the grindstone.’

‘He managed to do it all by himself,’ she said.

‘Oh, yes? Jolly good. My God, I should bloody hope so, though. Don’t want him slacking off at this stage.’

She laughed. There was a pause. He picked up the bottle again and looked at her enquiringly; she shook her head.

‘I think—’ she began to stir; ‘I think I might turn in actually. There’s a book I want to finish—’

‘Oh, of course, I’m keeping you—’
as a matter of fact I wish to
God I were
. He got up. ‘Well—I’ll see you in the morning, then. Sleep well!’

She said good night and was gone; he sat down once more and stared after her. I haven’t a clue, he thought, I haven’t a fucking clue. I shouldn’t even be thinking of it. And yet he could think of absolutely nothing else.

11

‘Oh, by the way,’ he said as he was leaving the next morning for work, ‘don’t worry about my supper tonight, not that you should do anyway, but I’ll be back late—Friday night I usually meet people and so on. The kids know the routine, don’t you, kids. No dinosaur tonight. See you both in the morning. Be good or I’ll have you for breakfast tomorrow morning, okay?’ He bent and kissed them both and straightened up.

Their eyes met for an instant.

‘I’ll see you later,’ he said. ‘If you’re still up—leave all the lights on if you go up before I get in. Right, off we go—oh! one thing— this is one of Mrs Brick’s days, isn’t it? Could you make sure she does some ironing, I’m down to my last shirt.’

‘Yes,’ said Barbara, ‘I’ll make sure.’

‘Jolly good,’ he said. ‘Thanks. Bye now.’ And he was gone.

Barbara felt strangely, unaccountably, deserted.

‘If you could find time to iron Mr Rochester’s shirts,’ she said to Mrs Brick, ‘it would be such a help.’

‘Mr Rochester?’ said Mrs Brick.

‘Oh, God,’ said Barbara. ‘I must be dreaming. Sorry. I mean Mr Maclise of course. Goodness!’

‘It’s those kiddies addling your brains,’ said Mrs Brick. ‘Kiddies do that to you. You wait until you have your own. Mr Rochester’s the least of it.’

‘Yes, I suppose so,’ said Barbara weakly. ‘So if you’ll be all right here for the time being, Mrs Brick, I think I’ll go for a walk.’

She covered the whole of Highbury, thinking of Mr Rochester, thinking of Mr Maclise. Alex. And I am not sloshed now, she thought.
Nor was I last night
.
Alex
.

Alex let himself in. The house was silent, shining. He knew he should not find her in the sitting-room: it was too much to hope for. No: silent, bare. He turned and went up the stairs.

One thing about these splendid doors, with their original handles, was that they had shrunk ever so slightly from their frames: a filament of bright light could just be discerned along the edges of the door to the spare room. He knocked very gently and entered.

Barbara looked up, astonished. She was sitting hunched up on the bed, fully clothed, reading.

‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Do you mind—I just wanted to see you for a moment. I’ve brought you something.’

She put down the book and sat up, astounded and speechless, and he handed her a smallish carrier bag.

‘It’s just a present,’ he said. ‘To thank you for looking after the brats.’

‘Oh, but you shouldn’t have done that,’ she said. ‘There really was no need.’ She was deeply taken aback; she was almost alarmed.

He shrugged. ‘It’s nothing much,’ he said. ‘Open it and see.’