Читать книгу Those Whom the Gods Love - Clare Layton - Страница 8

Ginty had been afraid that her voice would be squeaky with nerves when she was eventually taken to the studio to be introduced to the presenter and her fellow-speaker. But the atmosphere was so relaxed and so cheerful that she felt her throat ease a little, and when she said good morning to them her voice sounded almost normal.

A thin plastic beaker of cold water from the filter just outside the studio door reassured her that she wouldn’t have to croak. She waited, trying to feel confident as she watched the clock over the presenter’s head for the programme to begin. The seconds jerked by, the clock’s hand bouncing a little at each green dot. As the hand reached the top, a red bulb glowed beside it, and the presenter nodded towards a dark glass wall between her and the engineers.

‘You’re listening to My Radio, and I’m Annie Kent,’ she said in her familiar, seductive voice, as though she were talking to someone she knew and trusted.

Ginty reminded herself to copy it. On the few previous occasions when she’d been interviewed on the radio, she’d sounded as though she’d been talking to a vast lecture hall full of hostile strangers.

‘We’re here this morning to talk about rape. I have with me Doctor George Murphy, who has been working with sex offenders for the past twenty years, and Ginty Schell, who is just back from the refugee camps, where she has been interviewing rape survivors about their experiences.’

The doctor produced an affectionate-sounding ‘hello’ for listeners, but Ginty wasn’t quick enough to say anything.

‘Now, Doctor Murphy,’ said Annie, obviously speedreading a sheet of paper on a clipboard in front of her, ‘you have written in support of the new theory that rape is not, after all, a crime of violence. It’s an evolutionary adaptation to ensure the survival of certain genes. What exactly did you mean by that?’

Ginty bit her tongue. She should have done some research before agreeing to come on this programme, but there hadn’t been time. If she were going to have to argue with a man whose beliefs sounded like a cross between Rano’s and her mother’s, she might lose it.

‘And what do you think, Ginty?’

She pulled herself together, not having listened to the doctor’s answer, and licked her lower lip. ‘Well, I don’t agree. I do think rape is about violence, but, even more, it’s about control.’

That was a bit lecture-y, she thought. Relax.

Annie Kent was smiling, but she gestured with her right hand to make Ginty speed up. She tried to obey: ‘I’m sure, too, that some men use it as a way of terrorizing people who might otherwise be a threat.’

‘Is that what you think’s happening in the war?’

‘Yes. I can’t believe that the rapes have really been organized to make sure that the next generation of children belongs to both sides, whatever Doctor Murphy assumes.’

‘But …’ he began, but Ginty was launched now. She couldn’t hold in the words.

‘I think the whole campaign has been organized to destabilize the enemy. It’s an appalling example of men using women’s suffering in their own fight with other men. Unforgivable, but unfortunately typical.’

‘Doctor Murphy?’

‘Did you know, Ms Schell, that rape is more likely to result in conception than unforced lovemaking?’ he asked in a voice so reasonable that it sounded patronizing.

Ginty swallowed, thinking about Maria and the child she’d murdered.

‘No, I didn’t,’ she said, ‘but I don’t see that that makes any difference.’

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t see how it’s relevant to whether rape is or is not a violent crime.’ Clumsy, she told herself. Make it personal, specific: ‘Do you ever talk to rape victims, Doctor Murphy?’

‘Not many. My business is with offenders, who are sent to me for treatment.’

‘Well, I don’t see how you can bring them to understand what they’ve done, unless you yourself know what it’s like for a woman. Any victim of real rape could tell you that it’s definitely a crime of violence and power; nothing to do with procreation.’

‘The two are not mutually exclusive, and …’ Doctor Murphy began, just as Annie Kent started to talk, overriding him with ease, even though she didn’t sound remotely bossy:

‘What do you mean by “real rape”, Ginty?’

‘Forcible rape by a stranger,’ she said quickly, the anger she’d felt as she listened to Maria coming back to loosen the words in her mind. ‘The stories I heard out there have made me intensely impatient with women in countries like this – and the States – who may have had a bad time in bed, or drunk more than they meant and regretted making love, then gone on to claim they’ve been raped. However unpleasant, uncomfortable or humiliating what’s happened to them, it’s not the same.’

What a speech, she thought, as she heard the pontifical note in her voice and forced herself to stop.

‘And what about Rohypnol?’ said Annie with deceptive gentleness. Ginty wished she’d kept her mouth shut.

‘That’s different,’ she said, hearing the power in her voice diminish. She felt as she always did when arguing with her mother, outmanoeuvred and under-informed. ‘Giving someone a drug covertly is forcing them. It’s not like one drink too many, taken knowingly – of your own free will.’

‘A lot of people have fought hard – are still fighting – to establish the fact that “No” means “No”,’ Annie Kent said, making it clear whose side she was on, so Ginty had to answer.

‘I’m not suggesting for one moment that a woman can’t go out with a man and still decline to have sex with him. Of course she can. Women must be allowed to dress attractively, flirt, kiss or behave in some other way that leads men to think they’re going to get lucky, and still refuse. Of course they must. But if a man then persuades a woman against her better judgement, or encourages her to drink so much that she loses her inhibitions and does sleep with him, calling what’s happened “rape” diminishes the real thing and short changes the real victims – like the women in those camps. The word “rape” implies violence – or at least the threat of it.’

As she spoke, she saw surprise on Annie Kent’s face, but she didn’t comment then, turning instead to Doctor Murphy to ask whether he thought his theories meant that men who rape were less culpable than those who committed other kinds of violence – against women or men. Ginty listened crossly, wondering if he was being deliberately provocative. She kept a tight hold on her reactions, and answered the last few questions as calmly as she could without backing down.

Annie Kent wound up the programme, inviting her listeners to call in with their views. The red light went out, and she pulled off her heavy-looking headphones, saying cheerfully:

‘We’ll get a lot of calls about that. You were very brave, Ginty, denying the existence of date rape. You’ll have the PC brigade all over you now, not to speak of date rape victims. It’s a subject that always gets people going.’ She looked pleased.

‘Oh, God,’ Ginty said. ‘That’s not what I meant. I wasn’t thinking. I was just so shocked by what some of those women out there – children really – have been through that I … Damn! When will I learn to think before I speak?’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Doctor Murphy casually. ‘It made a good programme. Listeners like a bit of controversy.’

‘Do they?’

‘Of course. I used to shade what I said, put both sides of every case, and ended up boring everyone. There’s nothing most people like more than an excuse for outrage. You’ll have done a public service this morning, letting them get rid of some of their spleen. You don’t have to look as though you’ve just murdered your grandmother.’

Ginty managed to laugh.

‘That’s better. Can I buy you a cup of coffee?’

‘I’d like that. Thank you,’ Ginty said before checking her watch. ‘Oh, no! I can’t. I’m really sorry. But I have to be in Hampshire by eleven-thirty, so I’ll have to go now.’

Harbinger hit the button on the top of his kitchen radio with a triumphant pop of his fist. No wonder he’d sent little Ginty out to interview Rano! No wonder he’d had this idea that he’d met her for a purpose, that she had something he needed! He could have kissed her.

‘Calling that rape diminishes the real thing and shortchanges the real victims,’ he recited, practically dancing over to the espresso machine.

Good for Little Ginty Schell. His heroine. He’d buy her a bloody good dinner on Monday. And he’d see what he could do to get her the career she wanted so much.

Freshet House was a small Queen Anne box, built on a gentle incline above untouched, old-fashioned water meadows. Its red brick façade had been pitted and faded to a rosy softness, but the pristine paint on the cornice and windows gleamed in the sunlight as Ginty turned into the drive two hours later.

Square, safe, and very English, the house sat in ravishing gardens that had just reached their annual moment of perfection. She looked and admired and wished she felt part of it all. Now that she’d probably alienated half the world by what she’d just said on air, it would have been nice to find a refuge here.

Luckily neither of her parents listened to the radio, unless of course there happened to be some incredibly important music on Radio 3. She parked her Ka neatly between their Volvos, checking that she’d left enough space for them to open their doors, and that she hadn’t allowed her front wheels to slip over the edge of the gravel on to the grass, both sins for which she’d been castigated in the past.

To one side of the house were the old stables, where Louise Schell had her working library and offices; to the other was the startling, modernist music room Gunnar had had built when he bought the place thirty years ago, in the days when planning officers let that kind of thing through. Ginty sometimes thought that the arrangement was typical of their lives: screened, separated, and selfcontained.

As always in good weather, the back door to the house itself stood open. Ginty walked past the laundry and the store rooms, down the long black-and-white-floored passage towards the kitchen. In the pantry a strange young man in white trousers and T-shirt was counting piles of plates. Crates of glasses were stacked up on the floor beside him, with cases and cases of wine. Dozens of champagne bottles lay on their sides in the wine bins. In the dim light, the rows of dark-green glass looked like Rano’s guns.

The kitchen smelled of yeast and raspberries. Mrs Blain was very much in charge, standing in a white overall with a clipboard in her hand. Three other women were working for her, dressed in similar overalls and mesh hats. One was making what looked like brioches, another picking over trays of soft fruit, and the third was standing at a separate worktop trimming whole fillets of beef. Her hands were bloody, but all the kitchen surfaces were of gleaming stainless steel and there were no ungainly gaps or chips to collect grime and microbes.

Ginty had a moment’s guilty pleasure as she dropped her purchases on one of the draining boards. The plastic bags had almost certainly collected germs from her car.

‘I’ll take care of those,’ said Mrs Blain, looking up from her clipboard. ‘Thank you. Your parents are in the garden. And …’

And you are in the way, Ginty supplied, understanding the polite tones with ease. She nodded, moved on to the garden room to collect a floppy straw hat from the pile by the door, and set out to find them.

There was no wind to stir the hot air. Nothing moved. Even the birds had ceased to flop in and out of the dovecote. A pair of rooks squatted on the shaven lawn, beaks open and wings hanging out from their bodies like stiff black screens. The mower had left a faint petrol smell to spike the richness of cut grass and lavender.

Over the top of the yew hedges, Ginty could see the pinnacles of what looked like an elaborate marquee. She was amused to see that the peacocks were not in evidence. After the last concert they’d ruined with their screams, her father must have insisted on their removal.

She followed the distant hum of voices, between the borders, through the walled garden, and down the yew walk towards the river. The sounds became inaudible words, then distinct syllables, then real language:

‘… think so. It’s too much responsibility. If one of them should drink too much, take a canoe and capsize, it would be … tricky. Let’s have both put into the boathouse and then there will be no temptation and so no trouble.’

‘Hello?’ Ginty called.

‘Ginty!’ Her father’s voice answered. ‘You have made good time. We are down here by the bridge.’

She walked on, to see her mother sitting on the stone parapet, with her back to the river. She was wearing another of the big soft straw hats. The unravelling edge made a ragged fringe over her face, but when Ginty bent forwards to kiss her, she saw the unmistakable marks of exhaustion. She knew better than to say anything.

When she straightened up, Gunnar kissed her forehead as he always did. ‘You look well. Doesn’t she, Louise?’

‘Yes.’ Louise smiled at Ginty but managed, in patting her arm, to push her further away. ‘It’s a relief. If I’d known where you were while I watched the news each evening, I …’ Louise stopped, then took a fine lawn handkerchief from her pocket and wiped her upper lip. ‘Well, as you can imagine, I’m glad to see you safely back. Shall we go up?’

Couldn’t you sound a bit more passionate about it? Ginty asked in silence. I could have been in real danger out there.

Humiliated by the longing she should have grown out of years ago, she wondered suddenly if she’d accepted Maisie Antony’s commission as a way of scaring her mother into showing some emotion. If so, it had clearly been a waste of time. Nothing was going to shock Louise Schell into pretending affection she didn’t feel.

She staggered a little as she slid to the ground, murmuring something about the dazzle. Gunnar took her arm and they strolled together towards the house, both tall and elegant in their matching loose white linen trousers and shirts. Ginty followed, bending to pick up the sunglasses that had dropped out of her mother’s pocket with the handkerchief.

That night, as she moved among the guests in the garden, Ginty discovered that her encounter with Rano had bought her something, even if not what she’d most wanted. Instead of spending the evening hovering on the edge of conversations between her parents’ friends, she found herself talking about the war, as though she’d become some kind of expert. A few of the guests had heard the Annie Kent programme, but luckily most of them agreed with Ginty, and even the ones who didn’t were polite about her views on rape.

Boosted by the interest and compliments, she voluntarily went to talk to a music publisher and her husband, who had always terrified her in the past. Tonight they greeted her with apparent pleasure and even congratulated her on the courage she must have needed to face a thug like Rano.

‘Thank you.’ Ginty smiled up at the woman. Like most of the guests tonight, she was intimidatingly tall, as well as beautifully dressed and jewelled. Ginty tried not to let that make her feel small and grubby – or stupid. ‘But honestly I didn’t have much choice. His men picked me up and forced my interpreter and bodyguard to stay behind. So I just had to go along with it.’

‘I think you’re amazing. I’d have been scared out of my wits.’

As Ginty thanked her, she caught sight of a lone woman, standing on the edge of the terrace and apparently unable to break into any of the groups of chatting friends. Instead, she was peering into the waxy paleyellow petals of the magnolia grandiflora that grew beside the garden room door, as though an air of intense concentration might protect her from the humiliation of being alone. Someone would have to gather her up and ease her into the party. Ginty knew from experience that no one else would bother, so she made an excuse and moved to the rescue. Before she was half-way to the magnolia, she overheard the publisher say:

‘She has done well, hasn’t she? What a relief for Gunnar! With that cloth ear of hers and all the problems over her education and career, he must have been worried she’d never amount to anything.’

Her husband’s voice was kinder: ‘Don’t be too hard on her. Think what it’d be like to be an only child growing up in a house like this, always in their shadow. And with Louise being so beautiful and Gunnar looking like a Norse god …’

Ginty walked on in the scented dusk, glad she had her back to him. He was right, of course: it had been hard. For years she’d assumed she must have been adopted because that was the only way she could account for her lack of looks and talent. Just after her sixteenth birthday she had pretended she needed her birth certificate for some bit of school administration. That should have settled it because she was described in a neat italic hand as the daughter of Gunnar and Louise Schell, née Callader. But it had only set her thinking up stories of hospital carelessness and changelings and unlabelled babies given to the wrong couples.

‘I’ve always thought they smell of lemon soufflé,’ she said to the solitary guest, ready to take the conversation into botany, art, the sensual effects of flowers, or anything else that might suit. ‘By the way, I’m Ginty Schell.’

‘I know. I think I’d have recognized your smile anywhere.’

Ginty looked up at the softly creased face of the older woman and tried to find the right name in her memory.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ the woman said comfortably. ‘I moved to the States soon after your third birthday. You couldn’t possibly remember me. I used to look after you while Louise was working for her degree.’

‘I …’

The woman smiled, which made her face even more creased. Something did begin to move in Ginty’s mind and before she’d thought, she said: ‘Are you Nell?’

‘My God! Amazing!’

Warm memories were gushing up, as though a switch had been thrown in Ginty’s brain. There had been picnics, and stories, nightlights in the dark, sweets and all the warmth anyone could have wanted. How could she have forgotten it?

‘Of course I do. I can’t think why I didn’t recognize you at once. I missed you so much when you went.’

‘Me, too. It took me months to get over it. But I had to leave if Louise was to have any chance … You know, Ginty, I’ve been hearing about you from all sides and trying to tie up these stories of the fearless war reporter with the touching little creature you were, who had such awful nightmares. How did you do it?’

Ginty laughed. The party suddenly seemed more alive. Then she saw that the guests were moving towards the music room. There was to be an hour’s concert before dinner. She felt as though she was shrivelling inside her skin.

‘What’s up?’ asked Nell.

Ginty explained, adding: ‘It’s not that I don’t like music; I just hate the way it always has to be more important than anything else.’ She looked quickly over her shoulder to make sure they couldn’t be overheard.

‘Then why don’t we take advantage of the weather and the garden and just chat?’ said Nell. ‘There’s no reason why we have to go and listen to Gunnar and his band, is there?’

Band, thought Ginty in shocked delight. The irreverence!

They walked slowly down through the yew walk towards the river. Seeing the moon reflected in the blackish-green water and the way the pink and yellow flowers trailed off the opposite bank, she regretted the locking up of the two canoes. A fish nosed upwards, sending ripples through the surface, breaking the light into thin strips that spread and shivered and slowly reformed.

Nell kicked off her evening shoes to reveal bare legs and scarlet toenails and sat on the bank, wriggling her toes in the dark green water. Ginty looked at the bare legs in envy, then thought: why not? Hitching up her long cream-silk dress, she stripped off her tights and sat down on the bank. This was an unexpected bonus of freedom in a weekend she’d been dreading. She stretched out her feet until the cool water met her hot constricted toes.

‘So,’ Nell said, patting her hand, ‘tell me what’s happened to make you so tough.’

Ginty grimaced, thinking of the huge mass of people and possibilities that made her feel so vulnerable. ‘It’s only cosmetic – like fake tan. But I’m glad if it’s convincing.’

Nell looked her up and down in the moonlight. ‘Dead convincing. Very well applied, if I may say so; no tell-tale streaks at all.’