Nutshell(15)

Instead, Claude asks Elodie if she lives nearby. No, she doesn’t. She lives in Devon, in a studio, on a farm, near a river, by which she might be letting Trudy know that here in London she’ll be overnighting between John’s Shoreditch sheets. She’s staking a claim. I like the sound of her voice, the human approximation, I would say, of the oboe, slightly cracked, with a quack on the vowels. And towards the end of her phrases, she speaks through a gargling, growling sound that American linguists have dubbed ‘vocal fry’. Spreading through the Western world, much discussed on the radio, of unknown aetiology, signifying, it’s thought, sophistication, found mostly in young, educated women. A pleasing puzzle. With such a voice she might hold her own against my mother.

Nothing in my father’s manner suggests that only this afternoon his brother fronted him five thousand pounds in cash. No gratitude, same old fraternal contempt. That must stir Claude’s ancient hatred. And in me, something more hypothetical, a potential grudge. Even as I cast my father as a lovelorn fool, I always assumed that if matters became intolerable with Claude, and if I failed to unite my parents, I might live with my father, at least for a while. Until I got on my feet. But I don’t think this poet would take me on – tight black jeans and leather jacket is not maternity wear. That’s part of her allure. In my narrow view, my father would be better single. Pale beauty and an assured duck’s voice are not my allies. But there may be nothing between them, and I like her.

Claude has just said, ‘A studio? On a farm? How marvellous.’ Elodie is describing in her urban growl an A-frame cabin on the banks of a dark and rushing river that foams round granite boulders, a dodgy footbridge to the other side, a copse of beeches and birch, a bright clearing spangled with anemones and celandines, bluebells and spurge.

‘Perfect for a nature poet,’ Claude says.

So true and dull is this that Elodie falters. He presses in. ‘How far is it all from London?’

By ‘all’ he refers to the pointless river and rocks and trees and flowers. Deflated, she can barely fry her words. ‘About two hundred miles.’

She’s guessed that he’ll ask her about the nearest railway station and how long the journey takes, information he’ll soon forget. But he asks, she answers, and we three listen, not stupefied or even mildly bored. Each of us, from each different point of view, is gripped by what’s not being said. The lovers, if Elodie is one, the two parties external to the marriage, are the dual charge that will blast this household apart. And blow me upwards, hellwards, to my thirteenth floor.

In a gentle tone of rescue, John Cairncross mentions that he likes the wine, a prompt to Claude to refill the glasses. While he obliges there settles over us a silence. I conjure a taut piano wire waiting for its sudden felt hammer. Trudy is about to speak. I know from the syncopated trip of her heartbeat, just before her first word.

‘These owls. Are they real or do they, like, stand for something?’

‘Oh no,’ Elodie says in a rush. ‘They’re real. I write from life. But the reader, you know, imports the symbols, the associations. I can’t keep them out. That’s how poetry works.’

‘I always think of owls,’ says Claude, ‘as wise.’

The poet pauses, tasting the air for sarcasm. She’s getting his measure and says evenly, ‘There you are then. Nothing I can do about that.’

‘Owls are vicious,’ Trudy says.

Elodie: ‘Like robins are. Like nature is.’

Trudy: ‘Inedible, apparently.’

Elodie: ‘And the broody owl is poisonous.’

Trudy: ‘Yes, the broody one can kill you.’

Elodie: ‘I don’t think so. She just makes you sick.’

Trudy: ‘I mean, if she gets her claws into your face.’

Elodie: ‘Never happens. She’s too shy.’

Trudy: ‘Not when provoked.’

The exchange is relaxed, the tone inconsequential. Small talk or a trade in threat and insult – I lack the social experience to know. If I’m drunk then Trudy must be too, but there’s nothing in her manner to suggest it. Loathing for Elodie, now framed as a rival, may be an elixir of sobriety.

John Cairncross seems content to pass his wife on to Claude Cairncross. This puts the steel in my mother, who believes the discarding and passing on is hers to decide. She may deny my father Elodie. She may deny him life itself. But I may be wrong. My father reciting in the library, appearing to prize every second in my mother’s presence, allowing her to shove him into the street. (Just go!) I can’t trust my judgement. Nothing fits.

But no time to think now. He’s on his feet, looming over us, wine in hand, swaying barely at all, ready to make a speech. Quiet everyone.

‘Trudy, Claude, Elodie, I might be brief, I might not. Who cares? I want to say this. When love dies and a marriage lies in ruins, the first casualty is honest memory, decent, impartial recall of the past. Too inconvenient, too damning of the present. It’s the spectre of old happiness at the feast of failure and desolation. So, against that headwind of forgetfulness I want to place my little candle of truth and see how far it throws its light. Almost ten years ago, on the Dalmatian coast, in a cheap hotel without sight of the Adriatic, in a room an eighth the size of this, in a bed barely three feet across, Trudy and I tumbled into love, into ecstasy and trust, joy and peace without horizon, without time, beyond words. We turned our backs on the world to invent and build our own. We thrilled each other with pretended violence, and we cosseted and babied each other too, gave each other nicknames, had a private language. We were beyond embarrassment. We gave and received and permitted everything. We were heroic. We believed we stood on a summit no one else, not in life, not in all poetry, had ever climbed. Our love was so fine and grand, it seemed to us a universal principle. It was a system of ethics, a means of relating to others that was so fundamental that the world had overlooked it somehow. When we lay on the narrow bed face to face, looked deep into each other’s eyes and talked, we brought our selves into being. She took my hands and kissed them and for the first time in my life I wasn’t ashamed of them. Our families, which we described to each other in detail, at last made sense to us. We loved them urgently, despite all the difficulties of the past. Same with our best, most important friends. We could redeem everyone we knew. Our love was for the good of the world. Trudy and I had never talked or listened with such attention. Our lovemaking was an extension of our talking, our talking of our lovemaking.