Читать книгу A Woman Involved - John Davis Gordon - Страница 12

Oh yes, he was in love.

It seemed the longest day of his life, and the happiest. He thought through what Janet had said, and he tried to caution himself, against causing pain, against being optimistic, but he did not quite make it. He dared not leave the hotel, he dared not sleep off his jet-lag, in case she came and went while he was asleep. He sat alone at the crowded bar in the garden, slowly drinking beer, watching the hotel lobby, just feeling the excitement, of her, of being back here where she lived. Finally the sun went down, blazing red and gold through the palms; after dinner he could resist it no longer. He got into his rented car. He drove through Saint George’s, out onto the winding coastal road, through the heavy tropical foliage, past the grand houses; then he came to hers, on the seashore. He had never seen it before, but he knew the address from the telephone directory. He drove slowly past it. He stopped two hundred yards beyond. He walked down onto the beach.

The big house was across a little bay. There were lights on, twinkling between the trees. Her house. He stood, looking at it. Imagining her inside it, imagining what she was thinking and feeling; she knew that he was here, he knew what she was feeling, and with all his happiness and his yearning he willed her and willed her to come to him tomorrow. He sat on the dark beach for over an hour, just watching her house, imagining her, remembering her. Finally he drove back to the hotel, and went to bed, very tired but too happy to go to sleep easily.

That first night, five long years ago, their dinners had gone cold whilst they talked and laughed and talked. She had said:

‘Saint Thomas Aquinas will prove it to you, Jack Morgan, by pure Aristotelian logic, even if he cannot prove by logic what kind of God He is – read his Summa in Theologica. He gives five proofs of God’s existence, though it’s his third argument I like best, his Actuality-Potentiality proof of a Prime or Un-moved Mover. “And this all men call God.” No intelligent man could read that book and remain an agnostic, Jack …’

And when the floorshow came on, a troupe of limbo dancers from Jamaica, she had been unable to resist it when the pole was only twenty inches above the floor and she had kicked her shoes off and gone dancing under it, to roars of applause, her long blonde hair sweeping the floor, her arms upstretched, her jerking feet wide apart, a grin all over her lovely face; and when she had come back to the table, flushed and laughing, he had known with absolute certainty that he was going to marry this marvellous girl; he had taken her hand, and what he wanted to say with all his heart was ‘Let’s check into this hotel and make love’, but instead he said:

‘Tomorrow, you’re coming on a picnic, Ms Valentine, and reading Saint Thomas Aquinas to me, it’s this Actuality–Potentiality theory I’m really wild about …’

‘Oh? What about my lectures, Jack Morgan?’

‘What about my immortal soul, Ms Valentine?’

She had agreed to try to save his soul, though not to kiss him goodnight (nor had he tried too hard, in order to impress her), but he had driven back to his digs on air, wanting to whoop and holler and toot his horn, and he had blown Mrs Garvey a big kiss instead when she came out complaining about him disturbing the house by coming in late. ‘Mrs Garvey, be joyful, tomorrow I’m taking the most wonderful girl in the world on a picnic to read Summa in Theologica! …’

‘What about your lectures, Lieutenant-Commander?’

‘What about my immortal soul, Mrs Garvey? – What about my immortal soul? … ’

And what a picnic it was! He bought Summa in Theologica as soon as the shops opened and he swotted up Saint Thomas’ third proof while the delicatessen packed up the hamper. It was an absolutely beautiful spring day for saving his soul! The sun shone bright and the birds sang and the bees buzzed and butterflies fluttered and he sang her ‘The Surrey with the Fringe on Top’ as he tootled her down the Cornish lanes in his beat-up old Volkswagen, absolutely on top of the world. And he knew he was going to live deliriously happily ever after with this wonderful girl, and it was a wonderful feeling to be totally self-confident and very, very amusing. He spread their blanket on the soft grass by the stream and popped the champagne, and the cork flew and went dancing away over the sparkling rapids and he said:

That’s how our life’s going to be, Anna Valentine!’

And he took her in his arms and toppled her over onto the blanket, and she grinned up at him:

‘What about your immortal soul, Jack Morgan? That’s what I’m bunking lectures for …’

‘Ms Valentine, I’ve got a complete arm-lock already on the Third Proof and I know that good Saint Thomas would approve entirely of my honourable intentions towards you …’

And she had laughed up at him, and let him kiss her. But she had not made love to him. They really did read Summa in Theologica. While the birds sang and the bees buzzed and the stream twinkled, and the champagne tasted like nectar.

She had not made love to him for five long, deliciously nerve-racked days, five more days of walking on air, of singing in the rain, of Summa in Theologica and everything from Karl Marx and Adam Smith to the Beatles and Beethoven, from P. G. Wodehouse to Franz Kafka, five more delightfully anguished days of lovely Cornwall country pubs, bangers and mash and cream teas, of Cornish moors and coves and beaches, long tracks along the sand, five more days of delicious frustration and almost no lectures at all; on the sixth day he had fetched her at her residence, and she had solemnly announced:

‘I wrote to Max this morning. I’ve told him.’

It was the most important moment in his life, the happiest and the most solemn. He had taken her hand, and turned and led her silently down the steps to his old car. They drove in silence through the town. He parked the car, and opened the door for her. They walked hand in hand, by unspoken agreement, into the hotel. His hand was shaking as he signed the register. They rode up in the elevator wordlessly. Hand in hand, down the corridor. Room 201.

He closed the door, and leant back against it. They looked at each other. They were both very nervous. Then he took her in his arms, and crushed her against him, and his hands were trembling as he undressed her. They toppled wordlessly onto the bed, and, oh, the bliss of each other’s bodies at last.

He was awake before dawn. For a few moments, at his lowest ebb; Janet’s words flashed through his mind, and he tried to caution himself; then he was properly awake and he knew that she was awake too, lying in this same pre-dawn unreality. He got up and pulled on his swimming trunks. He went down onto the beach, and he started to run. To run, to run, to appease his yearning in the humid dawn, sweating out the booze and cigarettes of yesterday, with each rasp of his breath just thinking of her, thinking of her. When he had run two miles he turned into the sea, splashing and pounding, and he plunged. He swam and he swam underwater until his lungs were bursting, then he broke surface with a gushing gasp. And he flung his arms full wide to the horizon where she lived, and he bellowed to the early morning:

‘Come today my love … ’

She came in the middle of the day.

He was sitting at the bar, in the dappled shade, where he could see the lobby. He saw her suddenly appear in the front door, a splash of blonde hair, her willowy silhouette against the outside light, and his heart turned over and all his self-caution was forgotten. He stood up; she walked through the lobby, out onto the verandah, and she took his breath away. She stood for a moment at the top step, tall and blonde and elegant, frowning slightly in the sunlight, looking about the shadowed garden with half a smile of expectation on her mouth; then she saw him striding towards her out of the shadows, and her lovely face broke into her dazzling Anna smile, and she started down the steps.

He strode towards her, his heart pounding, and there was nothing else in the world but her coming towards him, smiling. Then his hands took hers, and then her face was next to his, for a fleeting moment their bodies touching as he kissed her cheek, and he got the delicious scent of her, and in that instant he felt all the passion of five long years. Then they were standing back from each other a laughy, shaky: ‘Hullo’ – she grinned, ‘–Hullo …’

Afterwards, when he would try to remember the details, it was all confused, like a dream; he would remember just wanting to crush her in his arms, and her backing off, laughing, saying, ‘We better sit down, but I can only stay a moment …’ which was the most ridiculous statement in the world, because no way was this wonderful thing going to be stopped. He remembered taking her hand and leading her back up the steps into the hotel, laughy and shaky and saying God knows what, and she let him lead her through the lobby, up the staircase, and it did not occur to him that he was compromising her, they were just naturally hurrying away together to a private place to be alone with their excitement; then they were inside his room, and they just stood a moment, looking at each other, grinning, and it seemed the happiest thing in the world, he could hardly believe that this was happening at last, and she was more beautiful than he remembered her: she grinned: ‘I can hardly believe this …’

‘Nor can I …’

And he took her in his arms, and she put her arms tight around his neck, and they kissed each other, mouths crushed together, and oh, God, God the sweet taste of her again, the glorious feel of her body against him again, the warmth, and she clawed him tight and cried: ‘Oh why didn’t you come back five years ago?’ – and he did not care about any of that, all he cared about was now, now, and his hand went joyfully to her breast and, oh, the wonderful feel of her, and she kissed him fiercely and then broke the embrace.

She backed out of his arms, her hair awry, her face smouldering. He stepped after her, recklessly happy, to take her in his arms again, possess her, to carry her off and she held up her hand to stop him. ‘I didn’t mean this to happen …’

She turned away and ran her fingers through her hair. ‘Wow …’ she breathed, ‘Oh boy …’ She walked to the window shakily; then she turned to him. She said ardently:

‘Of course I want to make love to you! With all my heart! But I’m not going to … I came to tell you …’ She stopped, then shook her head. ‘I came to see you – I had to just see you again. And then tell you that you had to go away …’

He was deliciously happy. ‘You love me.’

She tried to say it seriously, but she could not help grinning. ‘Do I? Or am I only in love with that magic memory of you – those wonderful days? …’

‘You love me.’

She closed her eyes. ‘I’m married, Jack. For better or worse …’

He said relentlessly, ‘The magic is still there.’

She ran her hand through her hair again and turned away.

‘And I want to keep it as magic, Jack. To be cherished …’ She turned back to him, then held out her hand to him: ‘Come,’ she appealed. ‘Walk with me. Openly, for all the world to see. Along the beach, in the sunshine. And tell me all about your wonderful life. Talk to me … Let me feast upon your story. So I can take it away with me …’

He held out a happy finger at her: ‘No more Summa in Theological … ’

They burst out laughing. It seemed the most tragically hilarious thing to say.