Eye of the Needle(17)
David and Lucy still did not make love.
First there had been his injuries, and then she had been pregnant, and then she had been recovering from childbirth; but now the reasons had run out.
One night she said, “I’m back to normal now.”
“How do you mean?”
“After the baby. My body is normal. I’ve healed.”
“Oh, I see. That’s good.”
She made sure to go to bed with him so that he could watch her undress, but he always turned his back.
As they lay there, dozing off, she would move so that her hand, or her thigh, or her breast, brushed against him, a casual but unmistakable invitation. There was no response.
She believed firmly that there was nothing wrong with her. She wasn’t a nymphomaniac—she didn’t simply want sex, she wanted sex with David. She was sure that, even if there had been another man under seventy on the island, she would not have been tempted. She wasn’t a sex-starved tart, she was a love-starved wife.
The crunch came on one of those nights when they lay on their backs, side by side, both wide awake, listening to the wind outside and the small sounds of Jo from the next room. It seemed to Lucy that it was time he either did it or came right out and said why not; and that he was going to avoid the issue until she forced it; and that she might as well force it now.
So she brushed her arm across his thighs and opened her mouth to speak—and almost cried out with shock to discover that he had an erection. So he could do it! And he wanted to, or why else—and her hand closed triumphantly around the evidence of his desire, and she shifted closer to him, and sighed, “David—”
He said, “Oh, for God’s sake!” and gripped her wrist and pushed her hand away from him and turned onto his side.
But this time she was not going to accept his rebuff in modest silence. “David, why not?”
“Jesus Christ!” He threw the blankets off, swung himself to the floor, grabbed the eiderdown with one hand, and dragged himself to the door.
Lucy sat up in bed and screamed at him, “Why not?”
Jo began to cry.
David pulled up the empty legs of his cut-off pajama trousers, pointed to the pursed white skin of his stumps, and said, “That’s why not! That’s why not!”
He slithered downstairs to sleep on the sofa, and Lucy went into the next bedroom to comfort Jo.
It took a long time to lull him back to sleep, probably because she herself was so much in need of comfort. The baby tasted the tears on her cheeks, and she wondered if he had any inkling of their meaning—wouldn’t tears be one of the first things a baby came to understand? She could not bring herself to sing to him, or murmur that everything was all right; so she held him tight and rocked him, and when he had soothed her with his warmth and his clinging, he went to sleep in her arms.
She put him back in the cot and stood looking at him for a while. There was no point in going back to bed. She could hear David’s deep-sleep snoring from the living room—he had to take powerful pills, otherwise the old pain kept him awake. Lucy needed to get away from him, where she could neither see nor hear him, where he couldn’t find her for a few hours even if he wanted to. She put on trousers and a sweater, a heavy coat and boots, and crept downstairs and out.
There was a swirling mist, damp and bitterly cold, the kind the island specialized in. She put up the collar of her coat, thought about going back inside for a scarf, and decided not to. She squelched along the muddy path, welcoming the bite of the fog in her throat, the small discomfort of the weather taking her mind off the larger hurt inside her.
She reached the cliff top and walked gingerly down the steep, narrow ramp, placing her feet carefully on the slippery boards. At the bottom she jumped off on the sand and walked to the edge of the sea.
The wind and the water were carrying on their perpetual quarrel, the wind swooping down to tease the waves and the sea hissing and spitting as it crashed against the land, the two of them doomed to bicker forever.
Lucy walked along the hard sand, letting the noise and the weather fill her head, until the beach ended in a sharp point where the water met the cliff, when she turned and walked back. She paced the shore all night. Toward dawn a thought came to her, unbidden: It is his way of being strong.
As it was, the thought was not much help, holding its meaning in a tightly clenched fist. But she worked on it for a while, and the fist opened to reveal what looked like a small pearl of wisdom nestling in its palm—perhaps David’s coldness to her was of one piece with his chopping down trees, and undressing himself, and driving the jeep, and throwing the Indian clubs, and coming to live on a cold cruel island in the North Sea…
What was it he had said? “…his father the war hero, a legless joke…” He had something to prove, something that would sound trite if it were put into words; something he could have done as a fighter pilot, but now had to do with trees and fences and Indian clubs and a wheelchair. They wouldn’t let him take the test, and he wanted to be able to say: “I could have passed it anyway, just look how I can suffer.”
It was cruelly, screamingly unjust: he had had the courage, and he had suffered the wounds, but he could take no pride in it. If a Messerschmidt had taken his legs the wheelchair would have been like a medal, a badge of courage. But now, all his life, he would have to say: “It was during the war—but no, I never saw any action, this was a car crash. I did my training and I was going to fight, the very next day, I had seen my kite, she was a beauty, and…”