The Kiss (14 page)

With a tug the zip comes unstuck and he pulls out a pair of holey jeans, extremely holey jeans. Being caught in a zip wouldn’t affect their condition much. He knows there’s a trend from time to time for the young to wear jeans with holes in the knee and let the wind whistle through to chap their skin, but this is surely going beyond the boundaries of fashion. And they’re filthy. Bogging, they would have called them back home. So, too, is an old sweatshirt of an indecipherable colour, and as for the pair of trainers! Aren’t kids supposed to be fussy about what they wear on their feet? Nike or nothing. Not his daughter, obviously. These trainers are worse than anything Davy has ever had even after weeks of ball-kicking and kerb-scraping. And the whole lot stinks.

But there is no alcohol in the bag, or cigarettes, or drugs. That’s a relief. He puts everything back into the bag and shoves it under the bed with his toe and then
goes and washes the smell off his hands. Sophie used to be so fussy about cleanliness; she sometimes had two baths a day, using up all the hot water. But she must have been wearing these clothes or else what was she doing with them?

After lunch he mentions it to Rachel. Sophie has taken Davy out to Inverleith Park to play football. They were both getting restless.

‘I don’t know what clothes you’re talking about, Cormac.’ Rachel frowns.

‘In an old blue sports bag.’

Rachel shakes her head. ‘Sophie doesn’t have a blue sports bag. I’ll take a look later when she brings her stuff back. But you know she won’t listen to me when it comes to what clothes she should wear!’

They discuss their children. Rachel thinks they’re not behaving much differently from how they were before, certainly not Sophie. ‘She’s totally wrapped up in her own affairs. It’s the age.’

‘Bloody awful age. Pity they can’t go to sleep and wake up when they’re eighteen.’

They hear the children laughing as they come up the outside stair. They arrive with glowing faces, and licking ice cream cones, which Sophie has bought. They met Sophie’s friend Tilda in the park, they say.

‘Tilda can’t kick for toffee,’ says Davy.

‘I’m not a bad kicker, though, am I, Davy?’ Sophie gives him a dig in the ribs. ‘Go on, admit it! I gave you a good run for your money.’

Cormac and Rachel smile at each other, reassured, so that when Cormac returns home to find his Aunt Mary on the line within minutes of his opening the door, his spirits do not do their customary nose-dive.

‘How’re you doing, Aunt Mary? We’re doing great here. The kids are fine. I’m fine. Rachel’s fine. Sends her love to you all.’ Rachel has never been able to stomach Mary, the aunt of the sly remarks.
Of course you won’t have time to make soup for your children, will you? Or iron their clothes. Or see to their souls
. A heathen for a mother! And out all day, never in the house when she’s needed. Healing the sick, Cormac would remind her, but Aunt Mary doesn’t see why that shouldn’t be left to men.

‘Nice talking to you, Aunt Mary,’ says Cormac, managing to terminate the call before she embarks on what a poor son he is to his mother.

‘I think we’ll take Sophie over to Belfast with us when we go at Easter,’ he says to Davy. ‘We could have good fun, the three of us. We can go down to Bangor and kick a ball on the sands.’

‘She won’t want to come. She says she’s going away at Easter.’

‘Oh, she does, does she?’ The feeling of reassurance hasn’t lasted long. ‘Did she say where?’ If she thinks she’s going to Greece she can think again.

Davy shrugs.

‘Has she a boyfriend, do you know?’ Cormac disapproves of pumping one child to find out information about another. There’s nothing like having children for throwing all your principles out the window.

‘She knows lots of boys.’

‘I’m sure. But has she a steady boyfriend?’

‘She’s in love. I heard her telling Tilda when we were at the park.’

In love. That could mean all manner of things. It doesn’t necessarily mean she has a steady boyfriend. She could have a crush on her English teacher. That idea gives him pause for a further thought: it might be why she has suddenly become so enthusiastic about Shakespeare.

It was their last night in Paris and Cormac was packing his bag ready for an early departure in the morning. He was not having a nightcap with Alec this evening. Alec had said good night when they’d got out of the lift. He’d said it stiffly, adding, ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’ He was not a man to forgive slights easily.

Cormac was surprised, then, when there came a tap on his door. Perhaps he had misjudged poor McCaffy. In a rush of
bonhomie
he opened the door wide, prepared to invite him in to share the last of the whisky.

‘Can I come in?’ asked Clarinda.

He half closed the door. ‘You certainly cannot! For God’s sake, Clarinda, what do you think you’re doing to me?’ The walls of the hotel were thin, and behind
every wall on this floor there were students, one or two of whom might be asleep; but the majority could be counted on to be wide awake knocking back smuggled cans of beer and bottles of wine, having a party for their last night in Paris. He had seen the bulging carrier bags being carried in and had turned a blind eye, on the understanding that there were to be no drugs. He had delivered a stern lecture on that.

‘Please, Cormac,’ pleaded Clarinda. ‘I just want to be with you, to talk to you.’

‘Well, I don’t want to talk to you! So, for Christ’s sake scram!’

She burst into tears. ‘You don’t have to be so horrible to me,’ she cried and ran along the corridor, making for the staircase, bypassing the lift.

He swore and sat down on the edge of the bed to put on his socks and shoes, then he went after her. He took the lift and when he emerged he found the front lobby empty, except for the night porter, who was watching a small television set. Had he seen a girl, one of the students? asked Cormac. The man certainly had. The young woman had been very distressed; he’d tried to stop her, but she’d opened the door and run out into the street. Had he seen which way she went? He shrugged.
Merci
, said Cormac, and went out into the street himself.

He stood on the pavement and examined the street to the right and to the left. There was no sign of her, of anyone. The French were not late bedders, even the Parisians; they often ate as early as the British. It was Sunday night, too, and more than half the restaurants had been closed. They’d found a large boulevard brasserie to eat in, down on St Germain. He had sat at a different table to Clarinda and had made a point of not looking in her direction. She had been very quiet and eaten very little, which had been noticed by Alec, who had commented on it to Cormac afterwards and wondered if she was feeling all right. ‘Was she OK when she was with you at Meudon?’

A slight drizzle was falling, leaving drops of pearly moisture on the car rooftops. He had come out in his shirt.
Tant pis
. Where the hell had she gone? ‘Clarinda!’ he called tentatively, expecting no response and getting none. This damn fool girl was making him sweat. He wished Rachel were here; she would know how to handle it. He might ring her when he got back to his room and talk it over with her. She had had to cope with most human conditions in her surgery.

He went to the corner of the street where it ran into the rue du Cherche-Midi. It was remarkably quiet and still. A cat was yowling but that was about all. He began to walk in the direction of number 87. The room Gwen
John had rented there had been her favourite of all the ones she had inhabited around Paris. In his mind’s eye he saw a room barely furnished with a wicker chair and a simple table on which rested a bowl of soft yellow primroses. The window, screened with white muslin, let light into the room. She painted it at dawn, for Rodin. She told him she had awakened to see the room in a different, almost mysterious light, and wanted him to see it too. How strange, thought Cormac, as he stood on the corner, that such a serene painting came from such a troubled soul. How odd, too, that he should have such a strong vision of that dawn painting when he was abroad on this dark night devoured by anxiety for the wellbeing of Clarinda Bain. He had thought Clarinda mature for her age and better balanced than many of the pupils; now she was acting like a child. He knew that was often how it was in the teenage years, with mood changes swinging wildly between two poles, but knowing it did not console him. He realised that he did not know what Clarinda was capable of. Throwing herself into the Seine? Surely not. Though he felt sure that Gwen John must have contemplated suicide.

As he neared number 87 he had a strong sensation that Clarinda – and the ghost of Gwen John – would be somewhere around here, hovering in the shadows, holding their breath, waiting for him to follow. He stood
still to listen, trying not to move a muscle, as if he were playing the game of statues. Was it a game Clarinda was playing with him? A cat, perhaps the one that been yowling, ran out from under one of the parked cars. He began to walk again, very slowly, making as little noise as possible.

He had taken only a few steps when she moved. She came out of the shadows of a doorway on the opposite pavement and flew off on winged feet up the street. She took off so quickly and quietly that she surprised him and he lost a few seconds while he gathered himself together. She had a good start on him yet he did not doubt that she would want to be caught, at some point. If his heart would hold out until then! He could feel it pumping away under his damp shirt. He was glad of the cooling mizzle of rain on his overheated head. He could hear nothing but the thud of his own footsteps on the pavement and the harsh flow of his breath. He kept his eyes focused on the dark moving figure ahead.

She turned left at the end of Cherche-Midi onto the Boulevard Montparnasse. He redoubled his effort now that she was out of sight. When he reached the corner he could see no sign of her on the boulevard. There were a few people about but no one was running. He stopped there on the corner and let his heart subside for a moment. God damn her! She could be hiding
in the shadow of another doorway, watching for him; or she might have crossed the road to go up the avenue du Maine. He had a sudden thought. She might be heading for the Montparnasse station, silly little fool that she was.

He waited for two cars and a motor scooter to pass, then he sprinted across the broad street and a few yards along branched into the avenue du Maine. He still had no sighting of her but he pressed on, pushing himself as hard as he dared. The station was not far, especially when one was running. Then he saw her: she was leaning against the station wall, her back flat against it as if she were awaiting execution, or a proposition. A nearby light illuminated her face, showing up its planes and angles. She had good bone structure, would age well. He could imagine making a head of her though knew he would not.

He jogged up to her and confronted her, his hands on his hips, allowing his breathing to settle back into a normal rhythm.

‘Clarinda,’ he said wearily. Didn’t she realise she could be taken for a prostitute standing there? Didn’t she realise how provocative she looked and how dangerous was her mood?

‘Cormac,’ she said, shifting her position slightly, letting her shoulders droop.

‘You gave me a hell of a fright,’ he said, putting his hands on her shoulders. ‘Running off like that.’ She was trembling and her long eyelashes glinted with teardrops.

‘Why do you hate me?’ she asked in a small voice.

‘I don’t hate you. It’s just that what you want from me is impossible.’

‘Nothing is impossible, if you want it enough.’

He has said that himself, more than once, but not for a long time.

She moved out from the wall and into his arms and her face turned up to his and the next thing that he knew was that his hot dry mouth had met her soft young one and was drawing in its sweetness. They were locked in a kiss.

Back at the hotel, Emma, Clarinda’s room-mate, awoke at two a.m. – she had not gone to any of the parties on account of a headache – to find the other bed empty. ‘Clarinda?’ she called. She got up and looked in the bathroom but it, too, was empty. She pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt and padded along the corridor and knocked on Cormac’s door. When there was no response she went on to Alec’s room and knocked there. He came to the door in red and white striped pyjamas with his hair sticking up at the back. He blinked at Emma.

‘What’s up?’

‘I can’t find Clarinda.’

‘Can’t
find
her?’ It took a minute or two for Alec to realise what the girl was talking about but then he wasted no time. He pulled on his dressing gown and with Emma following on behind he went striding along to Cormac’s room.

‘I’ve already knocked,’ said Emma. ‘He must be fast asleep.’

Alec knocked firmly and insistently and pursed his lips when nothing happened. He told Emma to run along back to bed and not to worry, then he descended in the lift to the lobby. The night porter was watching a black and white film on his television set. Alec recognised Humphrey Bogart.

‘
Excusez-moi,
’ he began.

The porter looked round.

‘Have you seen one of the pupils?’ asked Alec in English. ‘
Élèves. Oui? Et Monsieur Aherne? L’homme.
’ He tapped himself on the chest. ‘
Comme moi
.’

‘
Mais, oui!
’ The porter pointed to the door.

‘
Gone out
?’ asked Alec. ‘
Sortis?
’

‘
Oui, ils sont sortis.
’

Alec went to the glass door and stood with crossed arms gazing out into the dark, wet street. He turned, hearing a noise behind him, and saw Emma coming out of the lift with Cathy and Sue.

‘We heard Clarinda was missing,’ said Cathy. ‘We’re dead worried about her so we wondered if there was anything we could do.’

‘There’s nothing,’ said Alec sharply. ‘You’d do better to go and get some sleep. We have an early start in the morning.’

‘Emma thinks Cormac might be missing too,’ said Sue in a voice that was intended to sound innocent.

‘Perhaps they’ve eloped,’ said Cathy and then all three girls broke into giggles.

Cormac and Clarinda drew back from their kiss. He now was the one who was trembling.
Ae fond kiss
… The line ran through his head bringing with it the terrifying thought of Mrs Bain.

‘Clarinda,’ he breathed, shaking his head.
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever
. There would be no option but to sever and it must be done quickly.

‘Cormac,’ she said softly, putting up her hand to touch his face. He caught hold of her fingers and trapped them.

‘Listen, Clarinda—’ He could scarcely get past her name. She was looking up at him, her eyes luminous in the lamplight. ‘I’m sorry, I truly am. It shouldn’t have happened.’

‘What – the
kiss
? Of course it should. It had to! It was destined to, don’t you see?’

‘I want you to forget that it ever did.’

‘How can I forget something like that? Can you?’

‘We’ve got to. It was a moment of madness.’

‘I love being mad! I’m glad it happened. Aren’t you glad, Cormac? You liked it, didn’t you? You know you did. You didn’t pull away from me. You wanted it!’

She wanted him to kiss her again, he was aware of that, how could he not when the signals were so obvious? He was aware also that she was determined to try to make it happen. He felt unnerved by her straightforwardness. She was young, and although not a total innocent abroad she was still able to believe that if you wanted something badly enough you should go for it and to hang with the consequences.

And he wanted to kiss her again, which was unnerving him even more. She was sweet and young and refreshing and, in the middle of the kiss, which had lasted he knew not how long, whether it had been seconds or minutes, he had felt young again himself, freed of all the shackles that bound him. How seductive that was! For that brief spell of time he had felt anything might be possible. But he was not as naive as she was and now that he had drawn back he faced anew what he had known since he was a child: that you could not always have what
you wanted, or, if you did, the price to pay would be much too high.

‘I’m your teacher, Clarinda.’ He took hold of her wrists; she was trying to close in on him again. ‘I am here in
loco parentis
.’

‘My mother wouldn’t mind. She thinks love is the most important thing in life. She says without it the world is grey. She’s very romantic.’

‘You haven’t discussed me with your mother?’ The idea alarmed him.

‘Not exactly. Not
discussed
. But she knows I admire you. She does, too. She loved your exhibition when I brought her in the summer. She’d have bought your flamingo if she could have afforded it.’

Fleetingly he felt some warmth towards Mrs Bain. The flamingo had been one of his favourite pieces. It had been bought by Rachel’s father, which had embarrassed him for he had felt that his father-in-law was probably doing it in order to encourage him and give their family finances a little pep-up. Two other pieces had been bought by friends of his mother-in-law. He said, ‘I don’t know whether your mother would mind or not, Clarinda, but plenty of other people would, including my wife, whom I love. She is not a Rose Beuret. And apart from all that, I could get into very serious trouble.’

‘How could you? Only you and I know.’ She smiled at him, with the smile of a woman light years older. ‘Only you and I need to know.’

‘What are you up to these days, Sophie?’ he asks his daughter as they sit drinking a late-night cup of hot chocolate together. It is actually two o’clock in the morning and she has not long come in. She has been back-sliding and it will soon be time for him to read another riot act and lay down the rules yet again. With Sophie it is very much a case of giving her the inch with the full knowledge that she will take much more than a mile. He has sat waiting for her, dozing a little, then jerking awake to go out and stand on the top step gazing up the street, listening to the snarl of the wind as it prowled down the terrace. When he heard the hee-haw of a police siren his immediate thought was that it might be Sophie who was in trouble. Since becoming a single parent his anxiety level has risen distinctly.