The Pregnant Widow (35 page)

“What are you talking about? He doesn’t dribble. He just enjoys his food.”

Lily had embarked on the first, exploratory phase of her packing—the jerseys folded in their moth-proof polythene bags, the shoes berthed in their tissue paper … The conversation idled along at sixteen rpm.

“Enjoys his food?” Keith turned the page. “Show him a cheddar roll and it’s like that submarine film.
Ice Station Zebra
, remember?”

“Rock Hudson.”

“Yeah. Remember the best bit? The guy opens the fucked-up torpedo bay. And half the Arctic Ocean comes poling into the hold. Show Jorq a Dairylea and that’s what you get.”

“He just likes his food … You know what Adriano’s doing now? He’s playing it cool.”

“I ask again. How can four foot ten play it cool? Play
what
cool?”

“Well all these other girls seem to like him. And when they’re smoothing his thighs or giving him a kiss curl he turns to Scheherazade with a certain look.”

“What kind of look? Do it.” She did it. “Christ … Jorquil’s eyelashes.”

“His eyelashes? What about them?”

“They’re not eyelashes—they’re just two sets of whiteheads. Each of them speared by a bristle. And he’s a fascist. He voted for Heath.”

“He votes Liberal. He said.”

“
Lib
eral … And his smutty jokes. When he takes her upstairs.
Time for a visit to the Cape of Horn. Time for some Egyptian PT.”

“That’s just slang for sleep. Egyptian PT. That’s army slang. Because Arabs are meant to be lazy … Look. Rich men have a constituency with girls. It’s just a fact of life.”

“Agreed. But why are you sticking up,” he slowly asked, “for that fat brute?”

“He’s not even fat. Not particularly. He’s just big. And some girls like big men. It makes them feel secure. You’re just a chippy little guttersnipe. That’s all.”

Keith said, “It’s the aesthetics of it. Her all dark and small. Him like a huge loaf of white bread. I mean, who cares, but doesn’t it chill you to think of them lying down together?”

“She probably just isn’t very interested in sex. Not everyone is, you know. You think everyone is, and they aren’t. Look at her background. Girls aren’t meant to enjoy it. So she just lies back and thinks of England.”

“Scotland.”

“And he doesn’t
only
talk about cheese.”

That night at dinner, Keith closely monitored him—the village idiot in the dinner jacket. And it seemed to Keith that, yes, Jorquil did indeed talk about cheese all the time (when he wasn’t being laboriously right-wing), and he looked outlandishly fat, too, and he came close to drowning in his own saliva, and he … Such an impression, if distorted, was not distorted by envy or possessiveness. He wished it was, in a way, but it wasn’t. The distortion remained eerily otherwise. When he gazed at Jorquil’s lips, chafed, flayed, peeled, he saw and felt those lips in the act of kissing. And Keith thought, He’s not kissing Gloria. He’s kissing me.

A
re you better? At last you’re venturing out of doors.”

“Quite recovered, thank you.”

“You had some of us very worried there for a while.”

“Yes. It was touch-and-go, I admit.”

“… God he’s a Dud.”

Keith had caught her alone, with her patchwork quilt (the squares and triangles of cardpaper, the scraps of satin and velvet), on the south terrace. She now looked up and said, quite unintimately (an observer on the far side of the French windows might have thought she was talking about the morning weather—which was fresh and brilliant—or the price of yarn),

“Yes, isn’t he.
Mon
strous. Those lips. Those lashes. Like a row of pimples.”

Keith carefully sat himself down on the swing sofa. “So we see eye to eye on Jorq,” he said. Was that what was happening? Was he seeing Jorquil with Gloria’s eyes? “And the drool.”

“And the drool. And the
cheese …
Of course, that’s why I prolonged my uh, my ailment. To stay out from under him for another day or two. But I was pushing it. As far as he’s concerned I’ve been ill for months.”

“Months?”

“Ever since I drank that glass of champagne. Remember? And got caught messing around with the polo pro.” Slowly and solemnly she shook her head. “I’ll never forgive myself for that. Never. It was
so
unlike me.”

“Messing around with the polo pro?”

“No. Getting caught. I mean it’s unheard of.”

Keith continued to swing on the swing sofa, and there seemed no reason not to ask (because everything was now allowed), “What’s he like? Up in the apartment?”

Gloria reached for another shaped template, another scrap of plush. “The same as he is everywhere else. Jorq’s a bore. And bores don’t listen … I was going to say that he’s not too bad in bed when he’s fast asleep. But of course he snores. He’s like a great white whale. And he saturates all the pillows.”

“Still. Come on. It’s hardly a blind date, is it. And aren’t you two getting engaged? Well I suppose old Jorq has other attractions.”

She said quietly, “Listen, you fool. Moving down to London costs money—and I haven’t got any, you fool. You boring fool.”

“All right. I hear. I listen.”

Now Jorq’s face (which was chewing something) established itself on the other side of the glass. Gloria rippled her fingers at it; and gave it a startling false smile. She said,

“Well originally I thought I’d make him marry me and then get the divorce going as soon as possible after the honeymoon. But I don’t think I can even bring myself to do that … There’s already someone else.”

“Who?”

“You,” she seemed to say.

She seemed to say,
You
. Keith had misapprehended, and it was quickly cleared up. But we might step back from him here, at this revolutionary
moment … Men have two hearts—the upper, the nether; and convention tells us that when all is well they act in concert. But here, in this case, the two hearts responded antithetically. Keith’s upper heart sank, quailed, sickened; or it fearfully subsided into a certain kind of future. It was his underheart that felt poetic—not bursting, as hearts are said to do, but filling, rising, aching. He said,

“Me?”

“You?
No, not
you
. Huw. Aitch you doubleyou.”

“Huw.”

“Huw. He’s Welsh. He’s got a castle too. Now isn’t that a coincidence. You see, the trick is to find someone who’s rich
and
pretty. And who listens.”

“I thought for a moment you meant me.”

“You? Well you listen, I suppose … You’re just a student.”

“That’s what you are too.”

“I know, but I’m a girl.”

Jorq started rattling at the handle. Gloria said,

“Can’t the stupid sod see the catch?”

“It’s tricky. You have to pull then push. It’s an IQ test.”

“Then he won’t pass it. God, help the stupid sod out, somebody.” She gestured at Jorquil’s baffled image—pointing, tugging, shoving. “And I’ve got to keep him happy. If you please. Or I get the gorgon look from Oona. Oona scares the hell out of me. I sometimes have the terrible feeling she knows what I’m really like.”

After a moment he said, “Elizabeth Bennet.”

“Yes? What?”

“You’re not really the same, you two. She’s from the past. And you’re from the future.”

“Well,” she said. “Cocks naturally adapt. Down through the ages.”

Jorquil was now beating the door frame with the flat of his hand.

“Uh, Gloria—you know there’s a maid’s room beyond and above the apartment.”

“How did you hear about the maid’s room?”

“I could come up the north staircase. We might be able to slip in there for a minute or two. When he’s out.”

“Whatever for? Look at you,” she said, and laughed, “you’re terrified. You’re already out of your depth. And you know it.” She turned to watch Jorquil throwing his shoulder against the glass. “When they’re
that stupid, I hate rich people, don’t you? I hate rich people. But the trouble is, they’re the ones who’ve got all the money. I’ll look into it. The maid’s room. Ah,
here
he is!”

Jorquil stumbled out and steadied and straightened up; he surveyed the sky, the slope, the descents, the grotto, the white sheet of the pool; his chins settled and he gave a soft grunt of ponderous entitlement. Keith saw that Jorq had a scattering of cheese puffs in his cupped left palm. Now he smeared the remainder into his mouth and said,

“Airy nothings, that’s all they are.” He licked his hand. “Like so much in life. Airy nothings. Come on, my darling. To the pool with you.”

“I don’t think I’m quite well enough for the pool.”

“No no. On with your togs. Or should I say
off
with them.”

“Jorquil’s brought me some decent clothes at least.”

“Oh here,” said Keith, passing it over. And
Sense and Sensibility
disappeared into Gloria’s straw bag.

“Now come along. I want you turning all heads,” said Jorq, “with your pretty titties. Those pretty titties of yours. I want everyone to see them and weep.”

Could he really have said that, Jorquil? But what Keith was left with, on the terrace, was a sudden memory of his sister.
Vi
, he asked her, in the wood-framed Morris 1000,
why are you sticking your feet out of the window?
And Violet (eight, nine) said,
Because I want everyone to see my lovely new shoes. I want everyone to see them and weep
.

And then haphazardly came other memories. Like the time she ran the length of the garden and returned to him the lofted cricket ball, and then ran back again, and weeping throughout—weeping about something else.

And then came other memories. Needing to be rescued. What was he to do with them all? In this new world he had entered (it was very developed, very far advanced), thinking and feeling were rearranged. And this, he thought and felt, might show him another way.

O
ona was back. On that much everyone agreed: Oona was back—with Prentiss and Conchita (Dodo having been jettisoned somewhere over the Alps). With difficulty Keith made room for them in his mind.
Oona, yes, quietly watchful, and her experienced eyes did indeed closely follow the movements of Miss Beautyman. Perpendicular Prentiss, all joints and hinges, like an Amish hatstand. And Conchita, who had changed. With Jorquil here, and Whittaker back, and Timmy due, and all the servants present, the castle no longer felt spacious. Or perhaps he just meant that there seemed to be no room for manoeuvre.

They had to vacate their turret, Lily and Keith, and were transferred to a forbiddingly dark but curiously congenial room on the dungeon floor. Here Keith threw himself into his work, itemising, systematising, and eventually alphabetising the vast archive of his twenty-first birthday. He wanted to enter it now, in the list that lived with his birth certificate, under
Jean 7
. Not
Scheherazade 10
or even
Scheherazade 12a
, but
Gloria 99z*!
There were so many things he hadn’t known you were allowed to do.

“But I feel defenceless,” said Lily, “when you pin my arms.”

“That’s the point … And if it’s so small, why can’t you get it all in your mouth?”

“… Why should I
want
it all in my mouth?”

“Go on. Keep trying.”

“Now my head’s upside down … No. I won’t. You even look different. What’s
happened to
you?”

Lily said these things, but not in the dark—not any more.

Gloria Beautyman had a secret. A secret of titanic dimensions. Gloria was secretly married with three children. It was something of that size. Gloria was secretly a boy. It was something of that size.

“What would you call it? A monokini, I suppose.”

“But it’s not like yours, is it. Yours just looks like a bikini without the top.”

“She does it to humour Jorq. He insists. But she’s come on at least a generation, hasn’t she. It’s like having a whole new guest around the place. A thong?”

“It’s very narrow at the front … Does she wax it? Has she done a Rita?”

“A G-string? No, you can sometimes see a little fringe just above the band.”

“So she barbers it.”

“Trims it.”

Correct, Scheherazade. The triangle is isosceles in shape. Unlike your undesigning equilateral (I assume)—or yours, Lily
.

“A
loincloth? But it’s not the front, is it.”

“No, it’s not the front. It’s the back. Billowing out of it like that.”

“It’s hardly more than a glorified wedgie, is it. The back. I know. A fig leaf.”

“A tailored fig leaf.”

“Yes. A very expensive fig leaf. A fig leaf is what it is.”

Correct, Lily. Who was it who said
, And the eyes of them both were opened, and they knew that they were naked?
That was in Eden, after the Fall; you didn’t need a fig leaf until after the Fall. And consider another observation (made two thousand years later):
I never yet touched a fig leaf that didn’t turn into a price tag.
Correct, Lily. That’s all correct
.

Grazia, Adriano’s latest (and last), who was five foot ten, was blowing iridescent bubbles at him as he sprawled on his lounger, her mouth a thick pout behind the soapy monocle. Lily said,

“I see what you mean about Gloria’s tits.”

“Mm. She makes me feel sort of clumsy … Anyway, her arse is still enormous.”

“Mm. It’s still a
farcical
arse.”

And now Timmy was here. Timmy arrived, not on foot, but in a brace of taxis. And not with a knapsack on his back. He had with him an extended dynasty of monogrammed leather suitcases, plus his cello. His cello, like an encoffined Ruaa, with vast brood-bearing hips.

But it was a good entrance—Timmy’s. Long, slender, loose, vague, and somehow limply stylish—like a doodle from a talented hand …

B
rrr. Mmm,” said Scheherazade, settling herself on the sofa. “Lovely fire.”

“Lovely fire,” said Keith.

Ah yes: Scheherazade. He bestirred himself. Sitting there before the flames with his wine glass, Keith gave up trying to parse his altered state. He gave that up, and went back to doing what he did when he had nothing better to do (a now-frequent state of affairs): he was cherishing the thirteen hours. The thirteen hours comprised his secret. Nothing much, in scale, compared to Gloria’s double life or parallel universe. How was it for her?
The secret
, as a distinguished student of the mind once put it,
produces an immense enlargement. The secret offers, so to speak, the possibility of a second world alongside the manifest world
. Keith said to Scheherazade,