But you have a bruise, darling, her mother volunteered, on your cheek.
Connie was dazzled at this notion. She had merely pressed her cheek to the floor and listened to her own blood pumping. She had thought she understood her own strength, her own silliness. But apparently not. The doctor had already bandaged up her wrist, made a sling and put some kind of elasticated material on top for support.
It was a tiny fall, she repeated, feeling a charlatan. Shed only told her mother shed tripped to save fuss, not to cause it.
When I found her, Kitty said anxiously, twisting her wedding ring around on her finger, flat out like that, I was utterly petrified.
How about, the doctor said softly, I have a quiet word with Connie here while you fetch her something warm and sweet to drink?
Kitty pursed her lips and laced her fingers together, softly resisting, but then she nodded and quietly left them.
Connie resented being alone with him. As a child shed called him Doctor Donald. Now she called him Donald. He had metallic hair and a dimple in his chin that any girl could fall into. He was a big man and perpetually peaking, she felt; always on top form. He was ruddy and Brylcreemed and reeked of suede and clean tweed. Considerably younger, she couldnt help noting, than her father had been.
He was so polite. The situation, the affair, had been so polite. No feathers ruffled, as far as she remembered. Merely her own.
Your mother is anxious, he said gently, about the will and the special bequest.
Thats her business, Connie said abruptly, stretching out her legs under the covers, and my business. Nobody elses.
She imagined that her knees were two volcanoes. In Sumatra there were over a hundred volcanoes. Or so Monica had written. Over a hundred volcanoes. Eighteen active.
The simple fact of the matter is that nobody actually cares, Donald said, staring at her intently, thoroughly logical, so theres really no need for any of this.
She brought up her legs defensively. Any of what?
Any of thiscommotion.
In truth Connie pondered what she was about to say for a moment, it isnt even my mothers business, strictly speaking. Its mine. My business. My loan.
Have you been sleeping?
Why? Hed caught her off her guard.
Did you take the pills I prescribed?
She nodded. Yes. I took them.
She hadnt slept. She hadnt taken the tablets either. It had been five long months. Waking and dreaming were merging so wonderfully now. And what could be the harm in that?
So youre still determined to sell?
Connie nodded. Certainly. The money for the premises, the flat above, the stock, everything else should just about make up the required amount.
Donald was perched uneasily on the desks small pine chair. He adjusted his weight slightly and it creaked. It was a girls chair, she thought, and he was no girl.
What saddens me is that your father clearly wanted you to make a go of this business. He wanted you to be secure.
No, Connie shook her head, he didnt want me to be secure. He wanted me to commit myself. Which is something altogether different.
I dont see that.
She was irritating him. He still saw her as a small child. She was a mere toddler. Her knees wobbled, her feet faltered. In his eyes she would always be, at the very best, a dewdrop on lifes river bank. She could never cause a splash, the most she could hope for would be to glimmer slightly and then to evaporate. Thats what hed always wanted.
But Connie saw it differently. She had another slant, which she sensed was her fathers slant too. The slant was inherited, it was legitimate, she felt, and as such it had to be embraced, it had to be hugged and treasured and cosseted. When she had called herself inconstant to Nathan, that morning, she had not meant it lightly. It was absolutely true.
But Connie saw it differently. She had another slant, which she sensed was her fathers slant too. The slant was inherited, it was legitimate, she felt, and as such it had to be embraced, it had to be hugged and treasured and cosseted. When she had called herself inconstant to Nathan, that morning, she had not meant it lightly. It was absolutely true.
She was a small blonde flea and she jumped from place to place, from man to man, from job to job. And yes, sometimes shed found her feet, but only briefly, and on one of these occasions shed remained static long enough to qualify as an optician. Got the certificate. Got the frames and the lenses and the premises. Did all that stuff. And Daddy loaned her. No conditions. But when he wrote her the cheque hed said, I have a strong suspicion youll pay me back.
What had he meant, exactly? Even at the time shed wondered. And yet now she was paying him back. But she didnt happen to know how or why. At first shed thought it was the other way around, that he was paying her back. Now, however, she sensed that doubt itself was his legacy. His gift.
Donald was staring at her. What on earth could your father have been thinking of?
She shrugged. Me. Probably.
And your mother? What about her feelings?
Connie felt absolutely no desire whatsoever to discuss any of this with Doctor Donald. Why should she? She sighed languorously. My knees feel so heavy, she said.
The Head had instructed Lily not to wash. For the month of August. August was gorgeously equable weather-wise, so shed perspire less, he said. Nobody would even notice. And hitherto shed done just as hed asked. Until now.
Lily gazed at the bath water. She felt slightly dizzy but couldnt think why. She wondered idly what would happen if she disregarded The Heads wishes. Her stomach nagged her. It was a feeling akin to hunger. A pinchy, poky anxiety. She gnawed at her tongue. Then she abandoned her reserve, yelped and sprang in.
Once submerged she forgot all about The Head. Instead she watched her small breasts bobbing in the water. She tried to line up her nipples with her toes. She closed her eyes and focused hard, like a fighter pilot squinting through his viewfinder. Left a little. Right a little. Pow!
Out of the corner of her eye she sensed a movement. She blinked. She sat up and peered around her. Hot water lapped against her ribs. She looked down between her knees and saw a tiny line of gravel on the baths enamel base. She felt vaguely perplexed. But then she sniffed, casually, and picked up a bar of soap.
Five minutes and the water had cooled perceptibly. She rinsed herself off and then clambered out. She looked around for her towel. The brown towel. It was not on the floor. She turned in a circle, still looking. She inspected the towel rack. There was a pink hand towel, nothing else. She grabbed hold of the hand towel and tried to cover herself.
She wanted the brown towel. Still looking, she walked to the door. She pushed it wide and watched steam escape into the crooked hallway. She walked down and along. On the landing at the top of the stairs she thought she saw the brown towel, all in a heap. Carelessly abandoned. Lily stared at it a while. Could she remember dropping it in that place? It was such a small detail but she scowled because it didnt fit. She wanted it to fit.
She bent down to pick it up anyway. Her hand touched the towel and it felt as light as thistledown. She tried to lift it. It lifted, but not by any significant amount before it fractured in her hand and under its own weight. It was like dust and ashes. It was cobweb, snuff and soft fur.
She gave a little yell. She withdrew and then kicked out with her foot. The towel sprang into the free air at the top of the stairs like a skinny, vital, flat brown creature. A flying squirrel, a feathery, heathery fruitbat. Then it disintegrated. But Lily didnt see this happen. She had sprung backwards and was yodelling because her foot was stinging. She hopped and then whimpered, clutching her injured toes in her hands. There was blood on her foot, and a mark which could have been a scratch, or a nettle sting or, more disgustingly, it could have been a bite.
Seventeen
Ronny had been weaving around in the prefabs open doorway, in a state remarkably close to hysteria, for well over an hour. He was ludicrously buoyant, Jim felt, and for the silliest of reasons. The rain hitting the sea! he kept exclaiming, Whap! Whap! Whap! From the rear he resembled a little wooden puppet, a stick-doll, which somehow struck Jim as very poignant. He took a deep breath and then tried his utmost to focus on piling up the kindling in the fireplace.
In fact he found the puppet image a surprisingly resonant one, perhaps because for the first time in a long while he felt as though his own strings were being twitched but not in a terrible way, not in a calculated way and he was perplexed, jarred, undone, even, by the multiplicity of sensations it afforded him.
Usually he lived on one level. He preferred it that way. His colours were one colour, his music a monotone. Thats how he liked it. Even so, he couldnt really understand Ronnys apparent fixation on honing things down. To simplify life, certainly, but to achieve this end only through such petty deprivations? He told himself that Ronny had too much time on his hands. Which was true. But Ronny seemed to have no actual notion of time and what it really meant.
What?
Ronny had stopped jiggling and was peering sideways, out of the doorway, gesticulating madly into the rain.
Again.
What? he said, and then, who, me?
Quick as a flash he bolted.
Jim paused, threw down the kindling and walked to the doorway himself. A short distance down the beach Ronny joined a man and a woman. The woman seemed to be supporting the man although he was almost half her size again. Ronny procrastinated, just for a moment, and then took hold of the mans other arm and helped to carry him, staggering, towards the prefab.
As they drew closer Jim saw that the man was Luke.
Whats happened?
Jim assisted them inside. Luke looked terrible. The woman didnt look much better. Ronny was short of breath. He thinks hes had a heart attack, he explained, panting.
They lay Luke down on the sofa. He seemed calm but was pale and incapable of speech.