13

Saturday 24 August 1985

Chaite’s first morning in Foxworth; early morning — before even the sun’s

perpendicular rays properly illumine the mist presaging the heat of the day to come; Chaite wakes to the dawn chorus. A solitary leader, a reply, and off they go. What is it all about? Do they wake and feel constrained to exchange dreams? Are they promulgating information about marauding cats, and birds of prey? Is it a daily thanksgiving? Or an exchange of diaries? Whatever it is, we all ought to have a dawn chorus.

Chaite has been giving the Forty Eight in what she knows in a dreamly way is the Dummer Bummer Hall; she has just finished; the audience has risen to its feet in acclaim. It takes her some time to return to reality — an enantiomorphic Paul Wittgenstein — and recall that playing the piano is not now her forte. It is at times like this that she thinks her brain must be trying to get its own back on itself.

She gets out of bed and looks out of the window; recognises the day for what it will be.

She goes through to the bathroom, splashes her face, dries herself, returns to the bedroom and slips into some old clothes — a pair of knickers, an old pair of slacks with elasticated waist, a bright red pullover several sizes too large for her which someone forgotten has never claimed.

The sleeves hang right down; she looks in the long mirror and feels almost whole. She hangs a front-door key round her neck on a string and tucks it down inside — it’s cold! — slips on some sandals and saunters out into the market square with the virtuous air of one who has got up really early.

She sniffs the morning smells, exchanges purrs with a fat tortoiseshell cat, and pleasantries with the milkman: ‘You’re up early’

‘Yes — lovely, isn’t it?’

‘That’s going to be a hot day’

‘Certainly is — time we had some summer’

‘This is it’

‘You’re right — we’re having it now’

at this time of the morning — a day’s work before you get to the office — explore the area in which you live.

She turns another corner and finds herself walking along Chilton Crescent — a boundary fence on the right; bijouised dwellings on the left. It is here that an overpowering smell of roses arrests her; a trellis atop a fence covered in magnificent blooms. She reaches up to pull down a cluster, the better to inhale its fragrance ... and with a creak and a crack the whole structure topples forwards — swoosh — and envelops her in a thorny bower, holding her fast.

Her first reaction is to try to flail her way out, but she quickly realises that her captor is very powerful indeed, and has really got its prickles into her pullover. She stands stock still and takes stock. She tries to back away slowly, but the bower moves with her, yielding yet remorseless. She pulls at her left sleeve with her right hand, and makes some progress, but can’t see how to go on from there. She wishes she was wearing her arm. She wonders if she could free herself if she slipped out of the pullover. But people are beginning to stir and a topless girl emerging from a rosebush and streaking home might cause more problems than it solved. She hears the milk-float whirring and clicking away into the distance; no help there. A feeling of impotent rage sweeps over her — the whole episode unreasonably reminds her of Roy — when she hears a voice: ‘You seem to have got into a right old predicament’

It is the proverbial tall dark stranger — this one wearing a silk paisley dressing-gown and sheepskin slippers. Were he thinking about it, he might conclude that he looked bronzed and manly, the old James Bond image; in fact he looks more pale and haggard, a stoned Holmes.

‘Yes ... you’d think it’d be easy to get away, but I’m completely stuck — bushed, in fact’

‘I’m sorry about this ... oh! It’s my rose, you see. It shouldn’t really go falling down on people’

‘Well, it’s all my fault. It smelt so good ... I reached up to smell it better ... [will he think I was trying to steal his roses?] ... and it all came down on top of me. It’s me who should be sorry’

Sherlock Bond starts by freeing Chaite’s hair, gently, caressingly, making her spine tingle. Then he eases her pullover and the rosebush apart. At the same moment as Chaite realises that he will discover that she’s asymmetric, he discovers it. He is freeing the left sleeve; suddenly freezes: ‘Ooh ... did the rosebush get your hand?’

‘No, it happened when I was on a pirate boat in the South China Seas’

‘Seriously?’

An accident. It could hardly have happened on purpose.

‘There’

‘Thanks’

Chaite steps back, free at last: ‘That’s better. Well ...’

Before she can suddenly take to her heels like a shy animal released from a snare, he grasps the dangling sleeve and makes to lead her into his house: ‘You can’t go just like that — come and have some breakfast’

Chaite’s mind races; she can find no reason not to have breakfast: ‘I couldn’t possibly ...’

The aroma of coffee drags her into the hall; now she’s sitting in his bijouised pine kitchen. He’s bustling round, getting out bowls, plates and spoons, packets of cereals, cutting bread: ‘Do you live round here? My name’s Colley, by the way’

‘Colley ... like the poet laureate?’

‘Exactly ... [the poet laureate — O, rara avis] ... Tea or coffee?’

‘Coffee. I’m Chaite’

‘Chaite? Unusual, that’

‘Yes — it’s Greek — means "long, flowing hair" or "a horse’s mane"’

‘Forget the horse. How did your parents know your hair would grow like that?’

‘They couldn’t’ve done ... it just growed — and it seems right. But it’s like having a lawyer called Justice — if he weren’t a lawyer, he’d still be called Justice’

‘And then it would be like calling your first child Septimus’

‘Not a bit ... but I see what you mean’

‘I suppose your parents were classically inclined. Mine were obviously into the Restoration — and there’s some connection with the Cibbers, though I’m not sure what it is. ... And where have you come from today?’

‘I’ve got a flat in a house over overlooking the Market Square ... [Chaite waves vaguely in the general direction] ... Primrose Cottage’

‘Oh yes. Chaite ... pretty. Why haven’t I seen you before?’

‘Because I haven’t lived here for very long — in fact, my sister Mercia helped me to move in yesterday’

Colley is taken with this damsel in distress, rescued from the dragon rose, who knows of Colley Cibber. Everything about her seems mysterious, especially at this time of the morning.

He looks at her again, goes over to her unasked, and gently rolls up her right sleeve: ‘Now you can eat’

‘Thank you, kind sir’

‘How ... ?’

 This is true; she doesn’t like talking about it, because it can reveal flaws in her account.

‘I’m sorry ... I mean, I’m sorry I asked’

‘It’s perfectly natural to want to know ... perhaps, one day ...’

Chaite’s standard put-off. Will there be a one day?

‘Can I ask ... were you alone in the car?’

‘Please ... Not twenty questions’

There is a silence. Colley pours coffee: ‘How long ago?’

‘Oh ... over two years. And I was left handed’

‘How long did it take you to become right handed?’

‘As soon as I lost my left hand, of course. I got used to it quite quickly; it’s marvellous what you can do when you have to ... [Chaite the matter of fact] ... Now tell me about you. Do you live alone?’

Chaite the excited: ‘At the moment ... [Colley hesitates; Chaite’s heart leaps] ... my wife’s visiting her mother ... with the children’

Chaite’s perception flips, as so often it does: ‘Ooh ... how many children?’

‘Two: one of each. Giles is six and Nikki (after her aunt)’s nine’

It’s far too early to mention the possibility of another on the way.

‘That’s neat’

‘When Genista comes back, we’re off for another week in a caravan in the Lakes. Back to work on Monday week’

Why is he telling her all this? Chaite feels it oppressing her. How to escape?

‘What do you do?’

‘Me? I’m an engineer — at WEL ... [it wasn’t untrue] ... Do you have a job?’

For some unaccountable reason, Chaite doesn’t want to tell him that she’s just got a job at WEL.

‘Looking after an auction room’

‘Single handed?’

As he says it, Colley colours; Chaite laughs: ‘It’s not the first time it’s been said. And it won’t be the last. There’re quite a lot of hand phrases when you think about it. I have to be used to them all’

thinks hard of a way of framing a question: ‘Is anyone waiting for you back at the buildings?’

‘No, I live alone. It’s a good job I trust you, isn’t it?’

Chaite too is enjoying the thrill of the moment, and wants to put Colley out of his misery: ‘I used to be married ... to a football fanatic’

‘And then?’

‘Well ... I’m not a football fanatic. So I stopped being married to him’

‘How long ago was that?’

‘Oh ... over two years ...’

Chaite suddenly realises that Colley might put two and two together, and make six of one and half a dozen of the other.

‘I see ... [he doesn’t] ... so what happened?’

‘He walked out on me. I wasn’t there to stop him’

‘Would you have been able to stop him if you had been there? Would you have wanted to? Where were you?’

‘Probably not. No. Away for a change of scenery ... Can I use your loo?’

‘Of course. There’s one there ... [he waves vaguely hallwards] ... and one at the top of the stairs’

‘I’ll go upstairs’

She goes. Colley waits. Then he rises silently, goes upstairs, and stands in the spare room looking out of the window. Chaite emerges. Colley calls: ‘I’m in here’

She joins him: ‘What are you doing?’

‘Looking at the garden. I must cut the grass before ... before I go away ... And I ought to fix the rose ...’

Chaite comes up behind him, clasps him round the middle as best she can, nuzzles his shoulder with her chin.

Colley quickens: ‘It’s all very well for you to trust me ... but can I trust you?’

‘Not unless you want to’

Colley doesn’t want to. He feels many things, mostly submerged in a sudden, burning desire to have Chaite — because she’s there. Forgetting what happened just six days before, he tells himself that life with Genista has become tame of late — and what does he know of Genista, who only Genista knows? Trustworthy Colley suddenly rationalises what is about to happen; it will be a therapeutic session: no harm will come of it — in fact, it will do good.

outstretched. For the first (and last) time, Colley sees her complete incompleteness.

Chaite’s hurry to throw off her clothes is not because she wants to get to it, but because she wants to get through it. She has always felt uneasy at her attitude towards her body and what it might be for. The ethos in which she has been brought up and educated; the literature — and non-literature — she has read; her friends; all imply that a girl’s best friend is her body, and that there is to be a sacred relationship between man and woman.

Her stormy and short-lived married life with Roy did nothing but confirm her fears that practical sex was like the emperor’s new clothes — such a build-up to its being the very pinnacle of human relationship and then, with Roy, less fulfillment than boredom.

Is that what it’s all about? Who’s kidding whom?

So her fears that everyone was living a lie were confirmed, and her dislike of her body turned to an impotent hatred. Colley, of course, can know none of this. His own high expectations of the physical part of his relationship with Genista were fulfilled but gradually ... and they’d produced children ... and that was what it was really for — wasn’t it? — they’d done their bit in Mother Bionature’s scheme of things.

Chaite falls back on the bed, one-and-a-half arms still outstretched. Colley has already kicked off his slippers; now he throws off his dressing gown and, mentally leaping on to the bed, crawls on to Chaite, Bond subjugated by Holmes. Out of the corner of his eye, he notes that the bedside clock says it’s twenty to seven.

* * * * * * * *

The bedside clock still says it’s twenty to seven. Surely it wasn’t that quick? Then he realises that the clock has stopped. But it was quick. His hopes that he might have learned something to justify his momentary unfaithfulness are unfulfilled.

Chaite’s suspicion of her body is reaffirmed, save that she now knows that her lack does not bar her to men — and that is the greatest comfort of all; one of her most secret fears dispelled.

Each feels profound sorrow that the opportunity — such a golden opportunity — seems to have failed them.

The telephone rings — who on earth can it be?

‘Who on earth can that be?’

Colley struggles to his feet and goes to the bedside telephone in the next room: ‘371849’

‘Darling. Did I wake you?’

‘No, I’ve been up for some time. Pottering about ... you know ... [Genista will be satisfied. Sometimes, Colley is infuriated by her lack of curiosity; now he is thankful for it] ... What can I do for you? It’s lovely to hear from you’ He remembers to say it.

‘I just rang to say we’ll be leaving after breakfast, so perhaps you can get home at lunch time ...’

‘But it’s Saturday! I’ll be here, waiting. I’ll cook you an omelette before we set off’

‘And naughty chips?’

‘Yes, and naughty mooshy peas’

‘Darling ...’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m so looking forward to getting back ... and us all going to the Lakes’

‘I’m looking forward to it too. Have you had a good time?’

‘Yes, but I’ll tell you about it later. You know how they fret about the telephone’

‘Yeah. Give them my love. Drive safely’

‘Umm ... oh, Giles’s got his vest stuck in his zip ... must go ... byeee’

Colley goes back into the spare room. Chaite is dressed again; looking out of the window. Naked, Colley feels ashamed. Elaborately casual, he picks up his dressing gown and puts it on.

‘Genista’s coming back at lunch time’

Chaite turns round, smiling genuinely: ‘Nice for you. I must go now. I expect we shall meet again. Soon’

How odd it all sounds.

‘Yes, I’m sure we will. Thank you for dropping in’

‘Not at all; thank you’

How formal can they get? Chaite is at the head of the stairs; at the foot of the stairs; in the hall. Colley follows her down. She turns and gives Colley a sisterly peck on the cheek. Anticipating that she’s going to have trouble opening the door, he lets her out. She is gone.

Colley clears up the kitchen and checks round the spare room. He takes a long, contemplative shower. He lies on the bed; sleeps deeply for an hour or so until the milkman rings, wanting money.

What happened earlier has now become a dream; two other people must have been the protagonists.

Good — let it stay that way.