The Surface Breaks(38)
But instead of boardroom tables, there are more horse-riding expeditions for her son, more mountains to climb. Cricket on the lawn, birds falling to the earth – thud – as the boys stalk the fields with weapons called guns clasped in their hands.
“Look at Grace,” Rupert says as he reloads bullets. “She’s horrified. Are you one of those animal rights freaks?”
“You’re vegetarian, aren’t you?” George asks. He is the only one who ever seems to pay any real attention to me.
“Vegetarian, what nonsense,” Rupert harrumphs. “You don’t always have to come with us, Grace, you know.”
But I do have to. I have to spend as much time with Oliver as possible. So, I sit on the sidelines, watching as Oliver plays tennis or polo with his friends. I notice that George always cheers when Oliver scores a goal, holding his mallet up in delight and yelling, “Well done!” I notice that Rupert turns away at the same time, hair slicked back with sweat, teeth gritted rather than congratulating Oli. You notice a lot of things when you are forced to stay quiet.
“Fuck,” Oliver says now, as I touch the space between his shoulder blades to remind him that I am here. We are in the games room. George and Rupert and a few other men are playing something called poker in the corner; occasionally Rupert shouts that George is “cheating”. Oliver had been sitting in an armchair by the window, staring vacantly out at the sea. I did not like to see him alone, so I decided to keep him company.
“Don’t do that, Grace,” he says. “You frightened me.”
I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.
Oliver’s breathing is laboured, one hand to his chest as if to remind himself to inhale. He grabs at the glass at his elbow, draining what’s left in it. I do not like this time of the evening, when we all retire to the games room and a cabinet full of shining bottles is opened and the men fall on them as if dying of thirst. Their laughter grows louder and more meaningless until they find everything funny. I am not enjoying myself; not that it seems to matter to anyone except for George, who occasionally asks if I’m all right, if I want a drink, if I’m getting tired. The magic draught that Daisy has given me is beginning to wear off, pain crashing over me like waves tipped with shining blades.
“What’s the matter, Grace?” Oliver asks, his eyes suddenly on me.
I look over at Rupert, tormenting the young servant girl who is unlucky enough to have the night shift. I had met this same girl a few days ago; she and Daisy found me in the rose garden, sitting on a bench hewn from stone. I wanted to look as if I was enjoying the sunshine, turning my face up to meet its warmth, but truthfully, I had been compelled to sit until the throbbing in my feet subsided.
“There you are,” Daisy said. “Gorgeous weather, isn’t it? We decided to eat our lunch outside to make the most of it, don’t get too many days like this. This is my friend, Ling.” The other girl half-waved at me. “And this is Grace,” she said, Ling’s eyes widening in recognition. They settled on the bench with me, Daisy offering me some of her sandwich (Don’t worry, she said, it’s only cheese.) while Ling told me about her family, about her father who had been a doctor but who’d died last year, forcing her and her younger sister to find summer jobs in the Carlisle house to help their mother pay the bills. (It’s fine, she said, clearing her throat. We’ll be fine.) “Ling is a traditional name in my father’s homeland,” she said, as if this was something she had had to explain many times before. “It means clever. Intelligent. Dad chose it for me.” I could not imagine the Sea King ever finding such a name appropriate for a girl-baby. It will only give them ideas, he would have said.
Ling is tiny, so small that Rupert has to crouch down to whisper in her ear. She wants to escape, I can tell, but she has nowhere to run to. I am very familiar with that feeling.
“Rupe, come on,” George says, placing his cards on the table. “Leave the girl alone.”
“Shut it, Georgie Porgie.”
“I mean it, Rupert.” George gets to his feet. “Get away from her.”
“She doesn’t mind, do you, sweetheart?” I can see the tip of his tongue darting into Ling’s ear, her barely perceptible shudder. I should go over there and help, like I wish someone had intervened when Zale put his hands on me. But is it my place to do so? But maybe this type of behaviour is simply what women must withstand in order to exist in the world? We are trained to be pleasing, and to crave male attention, to see their gaze as a confirmation of our very worthiness. Are we allowed to complain, then, if the attention is not of the type we like?
“Are you tired?” Oliver asks me. “I understand, it’s getting late.” He sways as he stands, brushing up against me. I want to beg him to touch me again, and again. Is there something wrong with me? Could Zale smell this want? Is that why he did what he did?
“Where’s George gone?” Oliver asks, watching the men playing cards.
“Gone off in a huff,” Rupert says and Ling glances at the open door behind her. “He’s so boring these days.”
“Leave George alone,” Oliver says, losing interest. “Grace is tired so we’re going to call it a night.”
“Of course, mate,” Rupert says. “Whatever you want.” He smiles at Ling, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “I have a few ideas about how I can spend the rest of the night, anyway.”