Damage (11 page)
‘I want to organise the birthday party for Father on the twentieth. I thought it might be nice if we could all arrive for dinner the night before and stay for lunch on the Sunday. I’ll talk to Ceci. I can plan the lunch menu. Sally and I can help Ceci prepare everything. Then there’s Anna, of course, she can help too.’
This domestication of Anna seemed to me part of a plot on Ingrid’s part. Did she not see the incongruity of Anna in a kitchen? I had a vision of the four women. Ceci, Ingrid, Sally, all busy and competent and on home territory, and Anna, weaving her mystery and her power round the kitchen. Anna, imbuing all with another female aura, one that was infinitely more potent than the charm of care and kindness. The others were cardboard cut-out figures, and Anna alone was real, and glorious, and dangerous.
‘I may be late down. I’ll check, but Sunday lunch should be fine.’
‘Good. I’m sure Father will be thrilled. We can discuss presents later.’
She looked at her watch. Ingrid was anxious to be the one who dismissed the other. A revenge for last night.
‘I must be off.’ I moved towards her to give the customary kiss on the cheek. But she just smiled briefly and as she turned her head slightly, my lips brushed her hair. Perhaps that was another subtle change in the ritual, to move from skin to hair on the ever-lengthening road away from each other’s bodies.
In the car I remembered that it had been at Hartley I had asked Edward for permission to propose to Ingrid. So long ago. A fateful yes, that had led to Martyn and Sally, and to year upon year of peace and contentment, good luck and prosperity.
Hartley too would fall to Anna. Its other associations would be altered for ever. Its walls and gardens, innocent of her till now, Ingrid’s most beloved domain, must surrender too.
I rang her. It was early, she was home.
‘Hartley!’
‘Yes, I know. It was impossible to say no.’ Anna paused. ‘I don’t think I mentioned it but I’m going to be away next week, until Thursday evening.’
I paused. Don’t ask where. Don’t push, I admonished myself.
She laughed as if she had read my thoughts and said, ‘I’ve got to go to Edinburgh for a feature I’m writing, that’s all.’
‘Good. My committee is at the proposal stage. Final documents need to be prepared.’
‘Life, it seems, goes on.’
‘The surface needs attention, I agree.’
‘The outer edges of our world need strengthening. Only then can our secret real life continue.’
‘We know each other very well.’
‘Indeed we do.’
‘Goodbye. Till Hartley.’
‘Till Hartley — goodbye.’
H
ARTLEY HAD NEVER
held me in its thrall. It was Edward’s home. The place where Ingrid had been born, and had spent her childhood. The place where she rode and fished with Edward in school holidays. ‘Look, over there, I fell off Border. Father thought I had been killed. I was only concussed. There, that’s where I used to sit and dream of my future. That’s where, behind that rose bush, my first boyfriend kissed me!’ I had listened to all her dreaming memories, with a politeness that should have worried me. A man in love does not listen to the tales of his beloved’s childhood with such detachment. Nor does he look on the house that sheltered her with so cool an eye.
As I drove towards Hartley on Saturday evening I envisaged it as Anna would, seeing it for the first time.
Through iron gates, a long straight drive leads to its grey stone Gothic frontage. The massive oak door, around and above which Edward has grown ivy, has a reassuring solidity about it. Once one is inside and with the door closed, the panelled walls and high latticed windows impose their own quiet rhythm. The great carved oak staircase seems powerfully to separate the night from the day, so that each more fully enjoys its own charm.
The drawing-room faces south over a formal lawn. Beyond that, Edward’s land stretches out to soothe him with his mastery of all the eye can see.
The dining-room, with its mahogany sideboard laden with silver, makes the deeply English statement ‘Food may be serious, but it is not important.’ Though sensible and tasty, meals are not the highlight of a weekend at Hartley. The heavy, unwelcoming dining-room would defeat any culinary ambition.
The library is packed with books which would embarrass an educated European. Books on hunting, country walks, some biography — usually of military heroes — a little history. No classics, no poetry, no novels. Its easy chairs invite occupation, and are placed carefully beside tables laden with country magazines, the real reading-matter of the house.
The only room downstairs in which I ever felt relaxed is the drawing-room. I have virtually never visited the kitchen. Ceci, the cook, ruled supreme in her domain.
The staircase leads to a large landing and two corridors. One corridor leads past four suites down towards the large door to Edward’s room.
A shorter, panelled corridor leads past two other bedroom suites towards a heavy oak door and the room which over the years has been designated to Ingrid and me.
The bedrooms, all panelled and sometimes entered by two or three little steps, are genuinely charming. Each has a different eiderdown in flower pattern with matching cushions. They were all long ago embroidered by Ingrid’s mother.
Over time, the rooms have taken on the names of the flower or plant embroidered on the quilt — rose, or iris, or daffodil.
I knew this house so well and its rooms and its gardens, yet Hartley had not entered my soul. I visited Hartley and after nearly thirty years I remained a visitor. Would Anna be as impervious to its charms?
I stopped the car. My reverie was ended. Ingrid, Sally, and Jonathan came to greet me in the drive. ‘Edward’s on the phone in his room. Good journey?’
‘Mm. Very quick.’
‘Anna and Martyn will be here later. Anna had some work to finish. I asked Ceci to delay dinner until nine-fifteen. Hopefully, they will have arrived by then.’
‘Hello, sir.’
I nodded towards Jonathan, and decided against first-name terms for a while.
Ingrid linked her arm in mine as we followed Sally and Jonathan into the hall.
‘Edward put all the young people into his corridor, away from parents. We’ve got empty rooms the whole length of ours. Quite clever, don’t you think?’
‘Very.’
‘Come up and change.’
Our room was called Rose. The quilt, patterned in red, white and pink, was a potent reminder of lost days, and had an accusatory innocence as I entered.
Edward was in the drawing-room when I came down.
‘This is really wonderful of you all,’ he said. ‘Can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. Birthdays don’t mean so much now. Still, I suppose seventy-four is worth noting.’
‘Indeed it is.’ He looked well. He’d always had a glow about him, a kind of rosy hue. It suited him in old age.
‘Have a drink?’
‘Thanks, whisky please.’
‘Ingrid tells me Anna and Martyn will be along later.’
‘Yes.’
‘Nice of her to come. Must be a bit boring really. And Sally’s chap, I’m rather touched they should make the effort.’
‘Nonsense, Edward. You’re a favourite with all ages.’
‘Am I? Always wanted to keep in touch with young people. Gives one a feeling of continuity. Marvellous to have great-grandchildren. Any chance, do you think, before I pop off?’
‘Edward, I wish you great-great-grandchildren.’
‘Aha — always the diplomat.’
Ingrid came to the door. ‘They’re here. I’ll tell Ceci. They can have a quick bath and change, and then dinner. Perfect timing.’
Anna wore trousers. They were grey and tailored. This informal, country look altered her in some way.
Greetings over, she went upstairs. Later she returned in a dark blue dress that I’d seen before. She still seemed different. She’s ill-at-ease, tense, I thought. I’d never seen Anna ill-at-ease before.
Dinner was a quiet affair. Everyone was tired after their journey. It was a time for remembrances.
‘Anna, what memories do you have of home?’
‘Very few really. We travelled so much.’
‘I can’t remember a life without Hartley,’ said Ingrid.
‘Anna has her memories,’ said Martyn quickly. ‘But they’re more varied — impressionistic almost. Sally’s and mine are of Hartley, and of Hampstead.’
‘Was it difficult when you were young? Always moving,’ asked Sally.
‘It was just very different, as Martyn said. My childhood is really only a series of impressions — of countries, towns, schools.’
‘And of meetings and partings.’ Martyn shot a smile of sympathy at Anna, an ‘I understand, you’re not alone any more’ kind of smile.
I gazed at the silver on the sideboard, and longed for dinner to be over. I could have avoided all this, I thought. I could have made excuses — good ones. But I wanted to be here. I had to be here.
‘Martyn and I have been so lucky,’ said Sally. ‘A secure life in London. Lots of holidays at Hartley.’
‘The same little village in Italy every summer,’ said Martyn. ‘Repetition of rituals can be a kind of balm to the soul. I agree with Sally. We had idyllic childhoods … in lots of ways …’
‘Not in every way?’ Ingrid laughed.
‘Oh, every ungrateful child has a list of ways in which their parents failed them. Mine’s pretty short.’
‘Come on,’ said Edward, ‘you’ve got us all fascinated. What’s on the list? Did they secretly beat you?’ Edward rubbed his hands in glee.
‘There was too much order … a lack of chaos and passion.’ Martyn’s face became very still, as though he were mouthing the words. His voice was flat. It is thus we most often reveal inner pain. The effort of containment robs our words of colour and expression.
We looked at each other from either side of the table. A father who had missed knowing his son. A son who thought he knew his father.
‘Well,’ said Jonathan, ‘if you want chaos and passion you should have lived in our house. My father was a perfect gentleman. But it’s no secret he was a constant womaniser. He and my mother had the most terrible rows. Still, she stayed with him. For me and my sister, I suppose. They’re very happy now. But then he’s been ill for some time. It sounds cruel to say so, but she likes his weakness. He’s rather surrendered to her, like a good child with a kind nurse.’
‘How time works on all the young men. The wild young men,’ sighed Edward. ‘The tales I could tell you!’
‘Before you, Anna, Martyn was quite a young man about town,’ said Sally.
Anna smiled. ‘So I’ve heard.’
‘Oh! From whom?’
‘From Martyn.’
‘Aha. A full confession, was it, Martyn?’
‘Not at all,’ said Anna. ‘I was not surprised. Martyn is very attractive.’
‘He’s extraordinarily good-looking,’ said Ingrid. ‘And there speaks a proud mum. Now let’s all have a lovely early night. Somebody’s got a birthday tomorrow.’ Ingrid kissed Edward.
On the landing the ‘goodnight-and-sleep-well’ wishes were a trifle embarrassed. Anna was at the end of Edward’s corridor in Hyacinth. Martyn was beside her in Ivy.
‘I used to think all this was too pretty and feminine. Then Edward explained how carefully and lovingly each bedspread and its matching cushions had been embroidered. Now I think of it as a lovely tribute to Grandma.’
Ingrid stroked his cheek. ‘How kind you are, Martyn. Right, off we go. We’re down here at the end of the corridor.’ She smiled at them all. It was a conspiratorial ‘It’s up to you, but don’t embarrass anyone’ smile.
We turned and walked to our bedroom. I felt a humiliation I had not felt before. My body seemed heavy and awkward. I leaned against the door as we closed it behind us.
‘That was all a bit coy,’ I said sharply to Ingrid.
‘Coy! Coy, what a strange word to use. We are another generation. It’s quite understandable that they should want some certainty that we were not close to them. On the other hand, I don’t want Edward embarrassed, hence the separate rooms. Anyway, I don’t know how far things have gone with Jonathan and Sally. It saves tension all round. Anna and Martyn are different.’
‘You seem to be taking a great shine to Anna lately.’
‘
Force majeure,
darling.’ Ingrid started to undress. During the dressing-table ritual with the creams she suddenly stopped, and said, ‘Something is happening between us. I don’t understand it. But please don’t think I am unaware of it. I know you’ve been faithful to me, I know you’re not having an affair now. We’ve never been people for heart-to-heart conversations, so I’ll just wait. Does it sound arrogant? About the affairs, I mean. I don’t mean it to. Your faithfulness is very important to me. I just couldn’t be a Jane Robinson. What Martyn said about the lack of chaos and passion … well, it’s what I found attractive about you. And I still do. It all works in a way that’s right for us, mostly. Doesn’t it?’
‘Oh, Ingrid. My dear, I’m so sorry. I know it’s a terrible cliché, but I’ve got a problem and I must work it out myself. You’re so wise to just let me sort it out in my own time.’
We met each other’s gaze. We managed to avert our eyes before truth could be seen by either of us. Elliptical intimacy is the marriage vow of good companions. Vows that they honour behind the closed doors of bedrooms where, trapped in the winding sheets of dead desire, they take the pleasure they are entitled to. They convince themselves that they have not been cheated in this roulette game of passionless passion. It is a legacy from one generation to the next. The good marriage tie.
I lay beside Ingrid as she fell asleep. Anger and hatred worked in me, like snakes hissing. Their tongues were saying, go and get her. Go get her. Just take her away, they whispered. Make her come with you. Make her leave Martyn. Tonight. Just give up everything. Now.
I wanted to twist, and turn, and wrestle with their obscenities. But I lay silent and quiet beside my sleeping beautiful wife.
At two o’clock I couldn’t bear it any more. I got up. As I opened the door I saw Anna standing outside one of the empty rooms in our corridor. It was Olive. She beckoned me and smiled a little. As we entered the room she said, ‘I chose this room for peace. I wondered whether you would come. I could see your pain.’
