The Body of a Woman (14 page)
Read The Body of a Woman Online
Authors: Clare Curzon
Off and on came a partial face which was familiar. My father's, livid with fury, hanging over me, mouthing, but his words never reached me. I supposed he must have fetched me home and been disgusted at the state I was in. But home from where, I had no idea.
By the time I felt well enough to show my face that Saturday evening my father had left the house, so there was to be no explanation required from either of us. Before Leila went north she had left a number of pre-cooked dishes in the freezer to be heated up, and Mrs Chadwick was coming in over the weekend to look after us. Not that I felt much like eating.
Since Father was out there was little for her to do. I told her I would clear away and load the dishwasher, to prevent her staying to see me empty my plate into the trash bin.
From then until Leila got back from Yorkshire on Sunday evening I spent much of the time on the garden swing or face down in the overlong grass making a pretence of reading. I slept a little, but that was no more restful than my wakeful unease. It seemed more and more likely that there was something wrong with me, in my brain.
Unexpectedly my father returned that Sunday about a quarter to eight. For some reason I had thought he wouldn't be back. I suppose it was because of seeing him with Beryl. Although they'd both tried to give the impression she worked at the Uni, I wasn't fooled. Quite when I'd first known about his âlittle friends' I'm not certain, but I knew there was always someone there in the background, important to him but outside the family. A mistress, but only of sorts, because he'd always have to be the master. She would be something less.
How Leila felt about this was unclear. I suppose she accepted it, expecting nothing better from him. I couldn't be like that, not with anyone I'd ever loved. She was always so calm. She should have shouted at him or thrown things, like deceived wives in televison plays. It would do him good to feel afraid of someone.
He arrived as I was helping unload goods from the boot of Leila's car: boxes of fancy stationery, novelties and heavy albums containing samples of new greetings cards. She was tired from long hours of driving and he made the most of grumbling that she took on so much. Not that he was concerned for her, just for himself, because he had always to be in control.
That's how it would have been on Friday night too. He was furious with me for stepping out of line, but he wouldn't care at all how I was feeling now. As they went indoors he was still quibbling over some detail of the route she'd taken.
Leila had passed me her key-ring. Since we'd come to this house she'd been letting me put her car away in the garage. It would be eighteen months before I could appply for a licence, but I took every chance I could get of practice off public roads. I was specially proud of my skill in reversing, to park exactly level with the BMW and dead centre in the allotted space.
Tonight, however, the BMW wasn't there. Either my father had taken a cab home or someone had dropped him off. With my head bent over the Volvo's boot I hadn't noticed his arrival. Perhaps it had been in Beryl's little Fiat. So had Leila picked up on it? It all seemed tedious and unnecessary. I would leave them to the routine exchanges, he bickering, she silently shock-absorbing.
My old Raleigh bicycle was leaning against the garage's inner wall where I'd left it after the nextdoor boy fixed the chain for me. I wheeled it out and stood astride it facing the roadway. The lamp was a bit dodgy but it came on after I hit it once or twice. Perhaps by now indoors they'd reached the subject of my misdemeanours and Leila was getting the flak off it. Better I shouldn't be there. They might even think I'd slunk off to bed. It seemed a good time not to be around.
All day the oppressive heat had been building. Evening brought no relief. Dark bands of cloud were closing over the yellowed skyline and the sultry air was disturbed by quirky little gusts of wind. One moment all was totally still, and then dust eddies were swirling across the surface of the road. I stood on my pedals and looking up saw the early stars blacking out in twos and threes overhead around a half-moon in tatters of smoky cloud.
Our house stands high on a thickly wooded ridge that falls steeply towards open farmland. At the drive's end I turned left to freewheel downhill towards where the Chess snakes out to the Thames. There was no sound but the soft whirring of the bike's spokes and once the faint two-note hoot of a distant turbo train with its tantalizing hint of travel. I would have given anything then to get right away.
Halfway through the tunnel of arched beeches my headlamp flickered three times and went out. Now the darkness was total until, between sparser trees, lit windows became visible pricked out like stars. Then to either side were sloping fields that gleamed dully under fleeting moonlight, with hedgerows black and flat as stage scenery.
Between me and Mardham Village in the hollow straggled a few small cottages showing yellow, uncurtained windows. Then came the halogen glare of a farm's floodlit stockyard. A diffused orange glow over the distant town was reflected on the underside of felty overcast clouds, and strung out towards the horizon a receding double strand of sodium lights marked out the curving motorway, diminishing with distance like an exercise in perspective.
Ahead, occasional white scuts of rabbits flickered as they caught the whirr of my bike, and instantly, like juggled balls, they were bouncing away, behind invisible bodies. The road
began to flatten. I braked towards level ground and then, before the river's hump-backed bridge, the first fat raindrops spattered my bare arms. Lightning instantly lit the sky from behind. There were a hundred new scents released by the rain.
began to flatten. I braked towards level ground and then, before the river's hump-backed bridge, the first fat raindrops spattered my bare arms. Lightning instantly lit the sky from behind. There were a hundred new scents released by the rain.
The storm came on fast with a sheeting downpour and heavy thunder. There was no shelter but the occasional tree and I'd sense enough not to go for that. If I returned by the route I'd come the steep gradient would force me to dismount and push uphill for most of the way. The alternative was to pedal fast through Mardham and take the more gently rising loop back to the far end of our road. A further half-mile, but in the long run it must be quicker.
Already my cotton shirt clung like a second skin to my back. Water was trickling down my forehead. I'd been a fool not to take account of the weather; but at least this was a normal kind of disaster, one I'd be capable of handling. No challenge to my sanity.
There was no let-up. If anything the deluge increased. Thunder doesn't worry me, but the vivid flashes set my heart racing. Fork lightning flashed against the blackness like gigantic incandescent roots, violet-white. One strike was close, exploding with a violent hissing, and the air was filled with an acrid tang like cordite after a gun's been fired. Somewhere not far off a tree flared like a beacon.
With my head down, I pedalled on through a cowed village where all windows were close-curtained and the street lamps'ale globes had little effect.
Beyond it, for even the gentler climb, I should have dismounted because the lane fast became a gulley with storm-water gushing down between raised banks. My front wheel went suddenly from under me and I was pitched into the flow, an elbow grazing on invisible flints.
I sat up in the lane which had turned into a stream and I shouted with anger.
One moment I was alone and then next there was this man
looming over me, motionless. He looked immense, tall and sinister in a black mackintosh that reached down over his rubber boots. On his head a wide-brimmed rain-hat kept his face obscured.
looming over me, motionless. He looked immense, tall and sinister in a black mackintosh that reached down over his rubber boots. On his head a wide-brimmed rain-hat kept his face obscured.
âShould I help you?' he asked doubtfully.
âWhat do you think?' I spat back. âI'm not sitting here for pleasure.'
He disentangled the bike from my legs and hauled me up. âOne can't tell,' he said mildly, âquite how independent ladies require to be these days.'
It sounded too bland and I suspected irony. His grip on my arms in lifting me had been vice-like. I didn't dare let him see how scared of him I was.
âI suggest,' he said, âwe give up on the lane and take to the higher fields.'
Anything would be better than the ankle-deep torrent we were standing in, but I remembered the stranger I'd always been warned against as a child. Although I'd mocked the idea then, it didn't seem so melodramatic now.
But it was sordid inner cities where thugs and perverts existed, not the rolling Chiltern countryside. Here they were as improbable as vampires. And outrages happened with a different sort of people, not the kind we lived among.
That's what I'd believed until ⦠Until what?
Despite the hot anger of a moment before, there came a flash of terror. It was illogical, but for a bare instant my mind lurched with a sort of half-memory. Something terrifying from the past, although I didn't know what. But I could no longer believe I was invulnerable.
No one knew where I was. If anything happened I was on my own. If I disappeared who would think to go looking for me, supposedly safe in my own room at home? Not my father. He hadn't brought his car back today and he detested any kind of rain. Not that it would cross his mind to check on me unless he needed something. Now that Leila was back that was less likely.
What was the matter with me that I should get this fit of nerves?
I tried to shake off the fear but a disturbing resonance hung on: danger. I could become a victim.
The man stood waiting sideways on to the steep bank, one leg braced ready to climb. His heroic stance made me think of a highwayman. The wind flicked open the ends of his long coat. I could see now that, like the hat, it was of black leather, the sort I connected with old war films and the Gestapo. He held my bicycle almost effortlessly under one arm. The front wheel looked mangled. Perhaps he was burdened enough to be incapable of violence. Unless he hurled the bike at me.
I had to do something; used the edges of my trainers like skis to dig into the soggy grass, and staggered, sideways-on and slithering, to the top. And there I turned to run - straight into barbed wire. Some bastard farmer had thought fit to break the country code here.
The man reached out to where my shirt and jeans were caught fast. The more I pulled away the more I tore them and slashed my arms. I could feel warm blood running down one to the wrist.
Then I heard the bike dropped.
âStand utterly still,' he ordered. âEach barb has to be unhooked separately.'
A brilliant flash of lightning lit the figure bent over me with his fingers in my clothes. I saw a lean, curved profile like Mr Punch, brows knitted in concentration, a prominent nose with deep lines etched from bridge to chin.
âYou're in a real pickle.' His fingers stilled as he considered his own words. âThat's a curious expression, when you come to think. Soused in vinegar and onions: you're hardly that.'
He was unbelievable. I started laughing, uncontrollably. âSteady,' he warned. Did he know I was almost screaming inside? He gripped my upper arms tightly a moment, hurting the bruises already there. I hiccuped into silence. Then he began again plucking the torn cloth off the wires. âYou must
shout if I hurt you,' he said. âI can't properly see what we've got here.'
shout if I hurt you,' he said. âI can't properly see what we've got here.'
Then a humorous snort. âIf it's any consolation, you weren't the first to be hooked.' And he handed me an oily wad of sheep's wool he'd untangled with my shirt.
âYou chose a fine night for a cycle ride,' he commented drolly.
I didn't explain that I'd simply had to get away from the house, so turned it on him. âWhat were you doing out here anyway?'
âNeeding fresh air. It's been a helluva day.'
âDoing what? I mean, what are you?'
There was a pause while he decided how truthful to be. âI'm - a company director. It was my bad share day.'
So he chose to joke, but it was evasive. Any fool knew the stock exchange wasn't open on a Sunday. Besides he didn't look the part: more stagey, like an actor in a thriller film. I asked no more questions and volunteered nothing about myself.
We located a gate in the barbed wire fence and squelched through wet meadow-grass that whipped my bare ankles, then circled a field of ripening maize. By now the thunder sounded more distant and the rain had lessened, but the damage was already done.
Finally we reached the top, gaining level ground through a spinney where a beaten path led off to the road, my road. When I recognized where we'd come out I managed an ungracious, âI'll be all right now,' as a brush-off. âThanks for helping.'
âYou can't go home like that,' he said. âYou'll scare your folks to death. My sister can put something on your scratches and lend something to cover you up.'
âI don't need -'
But we had arrived right opposite his cottage and a woman was silhouetted in the brightly lit doorway. âIs that you at last?' she called. âWhat on earth are you doing with that old bike?'
She sounded so normal that I shrugged off any remains of fear. Just a little resentment hung on, at having publicly made such a fool of myself. And I didn't want my father to catch me looking like this. Especially after Friday's mess-up.
Inside, the cottage was tiny and bright with unframed colour sketches taped to the whitewashed walls. There were bean bags to sit on, or disappear in, and - funnily - they didn't look out of place against the antique furniture.
The sister, whose name was Morgan, conjured up a fluffy bath towel and almost pushed me through to the shower room. âA period piece,' she excused it. âYou pull a chain here to get the water. But it's hot and there's plenty. I'll just go and rustle up some dry clothes for you.'
I stood a long while under the deluge until the gravel rash and the rips on my arm were cleared of blood and mud. The skin smarted afresh and I noticed that the bruises which came up yesterday had darkened to a rich plum colour. I was wrapped in the warm towel when Morgan passed me the clothes round the screen: a red silk blouse and snugly fitting jeans which for me just needed the ends turned up. I emerged feeling more human.
The blouse was sleeveless and I couldn't miss her glancing at my bruised arms and then meeting her brother's eyes with something like a nod of affirmation. It made me wonder what each had been saying about me while the shower had drowned out all sound of voices from the adjoining room. She insisted on smoothing antiseptic cream on the new cuts, her pretty face puckered with mild concern.
Her brother - I still didn't known his name and felt embarrassed about asking - was making coffee in the minute kitchen. I'd meant to leave at once but the coffee smelled so good I was won over, so we all ended in the bean bags, Morgan neatly, and her brother's long body making an angular zigzag, his splayed knees above the level of his head.
Now I could observe him more closely. It was a long, humorous face with a baroque mouth, but, even without that
Gestapo leather coat, I still found him formidable. I had let him get away with a lie over his profession, but I felt I'd best not stray far from the truth in anything I told him.
Gestapo leather coat, I still found him formidable. I had let him get away with a lie over his profession, but I felt I'd best not stray far from the truth in anything I told him.
It was tempting to stay on. The old cottage was snug and comforting. I didn't look forward to the chill newness of Knollhurst and possible further encounters with my father. Without saying as much, I found I was explaining myself a little. They asked the usual questions about school, then about the move here from Caversham; which in turn brought up my father's transfer to the University of London.
âOur father was a professor too,' Morgan said. âAn archaeologist, so even in the holidays we didn't see a lot of him. He was always away on digs. I'm afraid we both found that sort of thing rather slow and preferred travelling to more racy places with Mother. She's a doctor of sorts.'
So then I told them about Leila, how really cool she was, although strictly only a step-mum. I didn't remember my biological mother except as an invalid in a nursing-home.
âAre you an only?' Morgan asked sympathetically.
Being proud of Eddie and his brilliant A-levels, I told her about his year off before Cambridge, how he'd been sponsored to sit in on American space research, observing biomechanics and robotics.
âM'm, impressive,' she said. âSo do you take after your father too?'
âNo.'
Even to myself it sounded abrupt. I rushed in to cover up. âEddie doesn't either, not as a person. Just in the brains department. I'm not so bright. If I go to college it will be on the Arts side. My best subjects are Languages and History. I'm taking French and Italian GCSEs this year in advance. As soon as as those exams are over I'll be free of school until September. Two years of sixth form after that.'
âThen what?' Morgan's brother asked from the depths of his bean bag.
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