The Only Story(34)

‘I’m sure policemen are just as suspicious of drivers smelling of Polos as when they smell of alcohol.’

‘Don’t you turn into a policeman, Paul. Or a lawyer, even if you are going to be one. I’m doing my best. That’s all I can do.’

‘Of course.’

You kiss her. You have no more taste for confrontation than she does. Of course you trust her, of course you love her, of course you are far too young to be a policeman or a lawyer.

And so you both laugh your way through several uncomplicated months.

But one February afternoon, she is late back from the Village. You know she doesn’t like driving in the dark. You imagine the car off the road, in a ditch, her bloodied head against the dashboard, Polos spilling from her handbag.

You ring Joan.

‘I’m a bit worried about Susan.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, what time did she leave you?’

‘When?’

‘Today.’

‘I haven’t seen Susan today.’ Joan’s voice is steady. ‘I wasn’t expecting her either.’

‘Oh fuck,’ you say.

‘Let me know when she’s back safely.’

‘Sure,’ you say, your mind only half there.

‘And Paul.’

‘Yes?’

‘If she comes back safely, that’s the main thing.’

‘Yes.’

It is the main thing. And she does come back safely. And her hair is clean, and there is nothing on her breath.

‘Sorry I’m late, darling,’ she says, putting down her handbag.

‘Yes, I was worrying.’

‘No need to worry.’

‘Well I do.’

You leave it at that. After supper, you pick up the plates, and, making sure your back is to her, ask,

‘How’s old Joan?’

‘Joan? Same as ever. Joan doesn’t change. That’s what’s nice about her.’

You rinse off the plates and leave it at that. You are a lover, not a lawyer, you remind yourself. Except that you are going to become a lawyer, because you need to be solid and stable, the better to look after her.

The log of memory splits down the grain. So you can’t remember the quiet times, the outings, the jollity, the running jokes, even the legal studies, which fill the gap between that last exchange and the day when, worried by a succession of late returns from the Village, you say to her, quietly and unchallengingly,

‘I know you don’t always go and see Joan when you say you do.’

She looks away.

‘Have you been checking up on me, Casey Paul? It’s a terrible unloving thing to do, check up on people.’

‘Yes, but I can’t stop worrying, and I can’t bear to think of you alone in the house with … him.’

‘Oh, I’m quite safe,’ she says. There is a silence for a while. ‘Look, Paul, I don’t tell you about it because I don’t want the two parts of my life overlapping. I want to build a wall around us here.’

‘But?’

‘But there are practical matters to discuss with him.’

‘Like divorce?’

Immediately, you feel ashamed of your sarcasm.

‘Don’t badger me like that, Mr Badger. I’ve got to do things in my own time. It’s all more complicated than you think.’

‘OK.’

‘We – he and I – have two children together, don’t forget that.’

‘I don’t.’ Though of course, you do. Often.

‘There’s money to discuss. The car. The house. I think the place needs repainting this summer.’

‘You discuss painting the house?’

‘That’s enough from you, Mr Badger.’

‘OK,’ you say. ‘But you love me and you don’t love him.’

‘You know that’s how it is, Casey Paul. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t.’

‘And I suppose he would like you to return.’

‘What I hate,’ she says, ‘is when he gets down on his knees.’

‘He gets down on his knees?’ In his elephant pants, I think.

‘Yes, it’s awful, it’s embarrassing, it’s undignified.’

‘And, what, begs you to stay with him?’

‘Yes. You see why I don’t tell you about it?’

The Fancy Boys used to turn up at Henry Road and sleep on the floor, dossing like dogs on piles of cushions. The more of them there were, the more busily relaxed Susan became. So this was all good. Sometimes they brought their girlfriends, whose reactions to Henry Road used to intrigue me. I became expert in sensing covert disapproval. I wasn’t being defensive or paranoid, merely observant. Also, I was amused by the orthodoxy of their sexual outlook. You might have thought – mightn’t you? – that a girl or young woman in her early twenties would be rather encouraged by the notion that something exciting might happen to her nearly three decades on: that her heart and body would still be excitable, and that her future didn’t necessarily have to be a matter of rising social acceptance combined with slow emotional diminution. I was surprised that some of them didn’t find my relationship with Susan a cause for cheer. Instead, they reacted much as their parents would have done: alarmed, threatened, moralistic. Perhaps they were looking forward to being mothers themselves, and imagining their precious sons being cradle-snatched. Anyone would have thought Susan was a witch who had entranced me, fit only for the ducking stool. Well, she had entranced me. And to feel the disapproval from women of my own age merely increased my pleasure at Susan’s and my originality, and my own determination to continue offending the prim and the unimaginative. Well, we all have to have a purpose in life, don’t we? Just as a young man needs a reputation.