Читать книгу Puffball - Fay Weldon - Страница 10

Liffey’s mother Madge was a lean, hard-drinking, prematurely white-haired teacher of chemistry in a girls’ school in East Anglia. She had never married, nor wished to, and Liffey was not so much a love child as a gesture of defiance to a straitlaced world. Madge had thought to bear a warrior son, but had given birth to Liffey instead, and Liffey had compounded the error by attempting, throughout her childhood, to chirrup and charm her way into Madge’s affections. Madge, hearing that Liffey was trying to have a baby, commented then to a friend, ‘Silence for six months and then this. Not that she’s pregnant, not that she’s miscarried—just that she’s trying to have a baby. How’s that for a piece of non-news?’

‘I expect she thought it would please you,’ said the friend, who was only there for the whisky.

‘It doesn’t,’ said Madge. ‘Liffey is an only child and an only grandchild. Nature is clearly trying to breed the line out. Trust Liffey to interfere with the proper course of things.’

Madge did not want Liffey to be pregnant. She did not want to think of herself diluting down through the generations. She craved mortality.

Richard’s father, on the other hand, living in early retirement in a fisherman’s cottage in Cornwall, was glad to think that his line might well continue, now that Liffey was off the pill. Richard’s mother was made nervous by the news—as if some trouble, pacing for years behind at a steady distance, had suddenly broken into a jog and overtaken her. She started knitting at once, but there was a tenseness in her hands, and the nylon wool cut into her fingers.

The Lee-Foxes looked a placid enough couple—well-heeled, grey-haired, conventional and companionable—but the effort to appear so cost them a good deal in nervous energy. He had ulcers; she, migraines.

‘It’s too early to start knitting,’ said Mr Lee-Fox. ‘She’s not even pregnant: they’re just trying.’

‘Richard always does what he sets out to do,’ said Mrs Lee-Fox, loyally.

‘Your fingers are bleeding,’ said Mr Lee-Fox. ‘Whatever is the matter?’

She wept, for answer.

‘Little garments,’ said Mr Lee-Fox, in wonder, ‘stained by blood and tears!’

Mr Lee-Fox could not understand why, having worked hard to achieve a reasonable home and a happy life and done so at last, troubles should still keep occurring. It was his wife’s fault, he concluded. She was discontented by nature. He hoped, for his son Richard’s sake, that Liffey was not the same.

‘You mustn’t worry,’ he said. ‘Liffey will come through with flying colours. Wait and see.’

Liffey was at the time extremely discontented, which made her more loving and lively than ever. Chirruping and charming. Sometimes, when she woke up in the apartment, opening her eyes to the concrete wall of the house next door, and the sound of traffic instead of the sound of birds, she thought she was a child again, and in her mother’s house.

The trouble was that Richard, telephoning Dick Hubbard the estate agent about Honeycomb Cottage, had been told that the cottage was for sale, and not to rent, and Richard had said they could not afford it.

‘We could spend some of my money,’ said Liffey. ‘No, we couldn’t,’ said Richard firmly. ‘I’m not going to live off you. What kind of man would that make me?’

By mutual consent, throughout their marriage, Liffey’s money had been used to buy small things, not large things. Confectionery as it were, but not the matrimonial home.

‘Then let’s sell this place and buy that.’

‘No. It isn’t ours to sell.’

The apartment had been a wedding gift from Mr and Mrs Lee-Fox. Disapproving of Liffey as a bride for Richard, they had sacrificed their own comfort and security and spent an inordinate amount on the present. Thus they hoped both to disguise their feelings and remain securely sealed in the ranks of the happy and blessed.

When Richard came home from his boarding school bruised and stunned, victim of bullying, they would seem not to notice.

‘Such a wonderful school,’ they’d say to friends. ‘He’s so happy there.’

Liffey searched the newspapers for cottages to rent but found nothing. Another month passed: another egg dropped, and failed. Liffey bled; Richard frowned, perplexed.

Liffey took a temporary job in a solicitor’s office. The quality of her cooking deteriorated. She served Richard burnt food and tossed and turned all night, keeping him awake. She did not know she did it, but do it she did. She had come off the pill, after all, and still they lived in London.

‘If Liffey can’t have children,’ asked Annie, Richard’s secretary, ‘would you stick by her?’

‘Of course,’ said Richard immediately and stoutly. But the question increased his anxiety.

Annie read cookery books in her lunch hour, propping them in her electric typewriter. She took an easy and familiar approach to her job, and felt no deference towards anyone. She had spent a year working in the States and had lost, or so it seemed to Richard, her sense of the nuances of respect owing between man and woman, powerful and humble, employer and employed.

Her fair hair hung over the typewriter like a veil. She had a boyfriend who was a diamond merchant and one-time bodyguard to General Dayan. She had wide blue eyes, and a rounded figure. Liffey had never seen her. Once she asked Richard what Annie looked like—tentatively, because she did not want to sound possessive or jealous.

‘Fat,’ said Richard.

And because Annie had a flat, nasal telephone voice Liffey had assumed she was one of the plain, efficient girls whom large organisations are obliged to employ to make up for the pretty ones they like to keep up front.

Besides.

When Richard and Liffey married they had agreed to tell one another at once if some new emotional or physical involvement seemed likely, and Liffey believed the agreement still held.

Christmas approached, and Liffey stopped work in order to concentrate upon it, and decorate the Christmas tree properly. She had her gifts bought by the second week in December, and then spent another week wrapping and adorning. She was asked to Richard’s office party but didn’t go. She did not like his office parties. Everyone looked so ugly, except Richard, and everyone got drunk.

Liffey arranged to meet Richard at a restaurant after the party. She expected him at nine. By ten he had not arrived, so she went round to the office, in case he had had too much to drink or there had been an accident. In no sense, as she explained and explained afterwards, was she spying on him.

The office was a massive new concrete block, with a marble-lined lobby and decorative lifts. Richard’s employers were an international company, recently diversified from oil into films and food products—the latter being Richard’s division, and he a Junior Assistant Brand Manager. If it were not for Liffey’s private income, she would have had to work and earn, or else live very poorly indeed. As it was, lack of financial anxiety made Richard bold in his decisions and confident in his approach to his superiors, which was duly noted and appreciated, and boded well for his future.

Liffey went up in the lift to Richard’s office, walking through empty corridors, still rich with the after-party haze of cigarette smoke and the aroma from a hundred half-empty glasses. From behind the occasional closed door came a cry, or a giggle or a moan. Liffey found Richard behind his desk, on the floor with Annie, who was not one of the plain ones after all, just plump and luscious, and all but naked, except for veils of hair. So was Richard. Liffey went home by taxi. Richard followed after. He was maudlin drunk, sick on the step, and passed out in the hall. Liffey dragged him to bed, undressed his stubborn body and left him alone. She sat at the window staring out at the street.

She felt that she was destroyed. Everything was finished—love, trust, marriage, happiness. All over.

But of course it was not. Richard’s contrition was wonderful to behold. He begged forgiveness: he held Liffey’s hand. He pleaded, with some justification, total amnesia of the event. Someone had poured vodka into the fruit cup. It was Annie’s fault, if anyone’s. Richard loved Liffey, only Liffey. Love flowed between them again, lubricating Liffey’s passages, promoting spermatogenesis in Richard’s testes, encouraging the easy flow of seminal fluid from seminal vesicles and prostate to the entrance of the urethra, and thence, by a series of rhythmic muscular contractions, into Liffey.

Love, and none the worse for all that: but earthly love. Spiritual love, the love of God for man, and man for God, cannot be debased, as can earthly love, by such description.

Still Liffey did not get pregnant.

Annie was transferred to another office. After the annual Christmas party there was a general shifting round of secretarial staff. A stolid and respectful girl, Miss Martin, took Annie’s place. Her plumpness was not soft and natural, as was Annie’s, but solid and unwelcoming, and encased by elasticated garments. Her face was impassive, and her manner was prim; Richard was not attracted to her at all, and was relieved to find he was not. He had lately been having trouble with sudden upsurges of sexual interest in the most inappropriate people. He confided as much in Bella.

‘For heaven’s sake,’ said Bella, ‘you can’t be expected to stay faithful to one person all your life, just because you married them.’ Richard quite disliked Bella for a time, for giving voice to what he saw as cheap and easy cynicism. He still believed in romantic love, and was ashamed of his lapse with Annie: his sudden succumbing to animal lust. He decided that Liffey and he would see less of Bella and Ray.