The Little House Page 22

  ‘I remember,’ Ruth said awkwardly. ‘I just didn’t realize that you planned so far ahead.’

  Elizabeth laughed gently. ‘How else could everything be ready for the day?’ she asked. ‘It’s no good dashing around a week before, hoping to get things in time. There are seasons to good housekeeping. You have to think about autumn in midsummer, and you have to think about Christmas in midautumn.’

  Ruth felt hopelessly superficial. ‘I haven’t even bought presents yet,’ she said.

  Elizabeth laughed, ushered Ruth out of the hall, and closed the front door behind them. ‘Then thank heavens you don’t have to worry about the house as well as everything else,’ she said. ‘I’ll have Thomas every afternoon this week and you can go in to Bath and shop. I hope it’s not too crowded.’

  Ruth watched Elizabeth drop the key to the front door of the little house in her camel-hair-coat pocket. ‘When did the heating man say he could come?’

  Elizabeth made a face. ‘You know what they’re like,’ she said. ‘Not until after the New Year holiday. I think everything just shuts down between Christmas Day and New Year’s Day. Still, you can go home the first week in January, and then you can start afresh in the New Year.’

  Ruth turned and trudged up the lane to the farmhouse, Elizabeth followed her, a little way behind. She nodded to Frederick’s Labrador dog, who ran between the two of them and stopped to sniff at a gatepost. ‘So that’s all right,’ she said quietly. ‘We’ve got another month.’

  Ruth and Patrick were in bed, Thomas asleep in the nursery next door, Elizabeth and Frederick in the bedroom further down the landing. Ruth had been with Clare Leesome in the afternoon, and she was alert and excited. Patrick had been up early, and had spent an arduous day in the editing room with a producer who had misunderstood what was wanted from the very first day of filming. Huge reels of film would be wasted; some parts would have to be reshot. The documentary was way over budget, and Patrick was so confused between the initial brief, the producer’s interpretation, and his own second thoughts that he felt quite incapable of patching together a film that would make any sense at all.

  He spent a long time in the bathroom, sitting on the toilet and reading Broadcast magazine. He did not acknowledge it, even to himself, but he was rather hoping that Ruth would be asleep by the time he finally emerged. He undressed and put on some pyjamas. Before they had moved into the farmhouse Patrick had slept naked, or wearing only a pair of boxer shorts. But under his mother’s roof he wore crisp cotton pyjamas, which he changed twice a week and which she washed and ironed. He came to bed smelling pleasantly of fabric conditioner and clean cotton, but Ruth missed the caress of bare skin and the natural scent of his body. On the infrequent occasions that they had made love since her return from the clinic, she found herself irritated by the pyjamas. Patrick’s fumbling with the trousers and his laziness in leaving on the jacket were a powerful antidote to sexual desire.

  Patrick looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. He had put on weight since living back at home, and his jawline was fatter than it used to be. He stretched up his chin and watched the skin recede. He looked at himself critically. He feared he was losing his looks and that his young, glossy handsomeness would not develop into his father’s craggy, attractive face, but would blur into plumpness and indistinction.

  ‘I should get fit,’ he said thoughtfully to himself. ‘Do some training, join a gym.’

  He did not mean it. The hours that he worked and the demands of his home life made any extra activity too much of an effort to be pleasurable. He shook his head at his reflection. ‘No time,’ he said. ‘Never a damn moment.’

  He shook his head again, feeling harassed and unfairly treated. He splashed water on his face and brushed his teeth and rubbed his face briskly in the warm towel. The touch of the fleecy cotton on his skin cheered him at once. At least he was now living in a well-run home, he thought. The towels in the little house had been unreliable, and often he had to use a damp one.

  He went quietly across the landing, noting the line of light under his parents’ bedroom door, and thought of them placidly reading their books in their big double bed. He had a vague sense that marriage should be like that: secure, mutually dependent, at peace.

  Ruth was waiting for him, sitting up in bed, turning the pages of a magazine.

  ‘You’ve been ages,’ she said with a smile. ‘I nearly came to find you.’

  ‘I thought you’d be asleep,’ he said. He turned back the duvet and got in beside her. At once she held out her arms and he slid into her embrace. The thought of making love to her surfaced in his mind and he instantly dismissed it. He would have to get up early in the morning, and he needed his sleep. If Thomas happened to wake then, Ruth might expect him to go to the nursery. After lovemaking Ruth generally went to the bathroom, and that would disturb his parents, and – more than anything else – Patrick was rarely aroused under his mother’s roof. There was something deeply inhibiting about the family home. His mother changed their sheets twice a week, and would know if they had made love. He could not bear the thought of them hearing the squeaking of the bed, or Ruth’s breathy cries or, worst of all, his own groan at climax. The thought of his parents hearing his lovemaking, or even worse, deliberately listening and then perhaps exchanging a smile, froze his desire before he was even conscious of it.

  ‘Let’s have a cuddle,’ Ruth said invitingly.

  Patrick stretched out and put out the bedroom light and cuddled her up against his shoulder as he lay on his back. There then ensued a dance as formal as if it had been choreographed. Ruth wriggled up the line of his body to kiss his neck, just below his ear, and spread her thigh across his groin, pressing against his penis. Patrick wriggled up also, to tuck her down to his shoulder again, pushing her down in the bed, so she was not sprawled across him. She raised herself up a little and reached across to kiss him on the lips; he felt her breasts press against his pyjama jacket, warm and heavy against his chest. He kissed her with tenderness and then took her head in his hands and firmly placed it on his shoulder.

  ‘I love sleeping cuddled up with you,’ he said, and then pushed her gently so she rolled over on her side and he cuddled up behind her.

  Ruth moved slightly backwards, so that her buttocks were pressing against his penis. Despite himself, Patrick found that he was getting aroused. Ruth moved a little away, and then back again. Patrick put his hand down and held her hipbone to push her gently away.

  ‘Enough of that!’ he said, in a warm, caressing tone. ‘I have to sleep.’ As soon as he spoke he knew he had made a mistake in making his refusal explicit. She moved away from him at once, rolled onto her front, and raised her head so she could see his face in the half-light from the window.

  ‘It’s been ages,’ she said.

  He sighed. He hated any analysis of personal life, and since she had been seeing Clare Leesome her desire to talk and talk and talk was even worse.

  ‘I’m just very tired tonight,’ he said. ‘And you must be exhausted too. Was the traffic terrible coming out of Bath? It’s late-night shopping now, isn’t it?’

  She would not be diverted.

  ‘We haven’t made love for ten days,’ she said. ‘And before that, it was a fortnight.’

  He forced himself to chuckle in a soft, confident tone, and drew her back towards him. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘It’s difficult at the moment. I’m incredibly busy at work and I feel really stressed, Ruthie darling. Wait till my Christmas days off and we’ll make up for lost time.’

  ‘You can’t,’ she said flatly. ‘You can’t ever make up for lost time.’

  He thought how much he hated these conversations, which could go from the most basic practicalities – such as the last date that they had made love – to the most fanciful of philosophies – such as whether you can make up for lost time.

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘And it’s as bad for me as it is for you. Let’s sleep now, and have an early night tomorrow. Mother can baby-si
t and we can go out for something to eat. How would that be?’

  He stroked her hair, willing her to feel sleepy.

  ‘It’s being here that puts you off, isn’t it?’ she asked. ‘In your parents’ house?’ She had a strong sense of how his mother’s care, his mother’s roof, made him regress to the little spoilt boy he must have been.

  ‘Not at all,’ he said firmly. ‘I’ve told you what it is, and it’s very simple and very boring. It’s being overworked, darling. Nothing complicated and psychological at all. Now can we go to sleep?’

  She was silent for a little while, and he thought that he had got away with it. But then he knew by the tautness in her body that she was crying, and keeping her tears silent.

  For a moment he thought he would take her in his arms and kiss the tears off her silly pretty face. But he knew that if he held her he would want to make love to her, and the thought of his parents awake, and hearing everything, was too much for him. He pretended to hear nothing, to know nothing, and shut his eyes, and waited for sleep.

  Fourteen

  CHRISTMAS DAY was organized into a state of domestic perfection by Elizabeth. They woke in time for church, and as Ruth went downstairs, carrying Thomas dressed in his smart new navy jumper and trouser set, she smelled the warm, appetizing scent of cooking turkey from the kitchen. Frederick drove them all to church, and they sat near the crib so that Thomas could see the stable scene with his wide, interested eyes.

  When they came home Frederick produced a bottle of champagne and they opened their Christmas presents. Frederick and Elizabeth had been generous to Ruth. They had bought her an expensive set of bath oils, gels, and shampoo, and a wide-cut swing jacket in a soft russet tweed. Ruth felt its soft warmth as she spread it out.

  ‘If you don’t like it, I can take it back,’ Elizabeth said, watching her face. ‘But I thought it was such a lovely colour! And such wonderful material.’

  ‘I love it,’ Ruth said honestly.

  Patrick had bought her a water-colour painting of Princes’ Crescent, where they used to live. When he saw her face as she recognized the clean curved line of the building, he thought he had been rather tactless. For a moment she looked as if she might weep.

  ‘I thought it would remind us …’ he said weakly.

  She glanced up at him with a speaking look. ‘I don’t ever forget. It was our first home …’ The fact that the little house at the end of the drive had never been a proper home, and was even now cold and empty, did not need saying.

  ‘And what has Thomas got from Mummy and Daddy?’ Elizabeth asked brightly.

  They could not persuade him to pull at the paper, so Patrick and Ruth unwrapped the big box. They had bought him a baby bouncer. Frederick let out a little cheer. ‘You know, it crossed my mind that you might get him that. I put up a hook in the kitchen last night. We can try him out in it now.’

  ‘Last night!’ Patrick exclaimed.

  ‘While I was stuffing the turkey,’ Elizabeth said, smiling. ‘So don’t blame me if there’s plaster in the chestnut stuffing!’

  They took the harness and the elastic strap through to the kitchen and adjusted it carefully. Then Ruth put Thomas into the seat and clapped her hands in delight as he put his toes cautiously down to the ground, and then ecstatically kicked off, again and again. ‘He loves it!’ she said.

  ‘He can watch me serve lunch,’ Elizabeth said.

  ‘Can I do anything?’ Ruth asked, knowing what the answer would be.

  ‘You go and have another glass of champagne with Frederick,’ Elizabeth said warmly. ‘Patrick can help me, and Thomas can tell us what to do.’

  Ruth smiled, and she and Frederick left the kitchen. At the doorway she glanced back. Patrick, his mother, and his child made a pretty picture of domestic contentment. There was a unity about the three of them, as if they were parents and child, as if Thomas belonged to them alone. As if she and Frederick were visitors to this family, welcomed in the drawing room, but banned from the intimacy of the kitchen and the natural love that flowed between the other three.

  In the drawing room Frederick poured her another glass of champagne. ‘You have no objection to us going back to the little house, have you?’ she asked frankly. It was rare that they were alone together, and even rarer that they should speak of matters of importance.

  He bent over and fiddled with the neck of the bottle. ‘I know Mother was worried that you wouldn’t be able to cope,’ he said.

  ‘She must see that I can manage now.’

  He did not meet her eyes. ‘And Patrick wanted to know that you were all right during the day, when he couldn’t be with you.’

  She nodded. ‘But I am fine.’

  He looked her in the face for the first time. ‘I’ve no axe to grind,’ he said simply. ‘If you are well and Thomas is well and Patrick is happy, then anything else is your own business. And it shouldn’t be me that you’re speaking to …’

  She thought he was giving her some kind of clue. She waited.

  He nodded in the direction of the kitchen. ‘Patrick. Your husband. It’s his job to provide you with a home, and his job to see that you’re happily settled in it.’ He paused for a powerful moment. ‘And his job to make sure that you get on with your own lives.’

  After Christmas lunch, following the annual tradition, they telephoned Miriam in Canada. The phone rang for a while at the other end, and when it was answered it was a man’s voice. He called Miriam to the phone.

  ‘Hello, darling,’ Elizabeth said. ‘Who was that?’

  She listened intently. ‘Oh. So how long has he been living with you? Two months! Why didn’t you …?’

  Ruth could hear the tantalizing sound of speech but not distinguish the words. She thought she had never seen Elizabeth so rattled.

  ‘I’m not prying!’ Elizabeth exclaimed. ‘I’m trying to wish you a Happy Christmas, darling!’

  The telephone squawked indignantly. Ruth realized she was grinning and straightened her face.

  ‘I am absolutely not trying to interfere …’ Elizabeth said. She broke off and held the telephone away. Even Ruth, on the other side of the room, could hear Miriam’s anger.

  Elizabeth exchanged a look with Frederick. ‘She really is quite impossible,’ she said. She put the telephone back to her ear. ‘Your father wants to say hello.’ Elizabeth beckoned to Frederick.

  ‘Hello, Mimi,’ he said affectionately. ‘Happy Christmas.’

  Ruth watched Elizabeth following the one-sided conversation. Frederick told his daughter that they had been to church and eaten Christmas dinner; he told her that they were missing her. Ruth noticed that there was no mention of Patrick and Ruth’s living at the farmhouse, and that the reference to Thomas did not mention his mother’s health.

  ‘She wants to talk to you.’ Frederick passed the receiver to Patrick.

  ‘Did she say who he was?’ Elizabeth whispered.

  Frederick shook his head. ‘I wasn’t going to ask,’ he replied. ‘She’ll tell us soon enough, if she wants to.’

  ‘It’s been two months and she’s never so much as mentioned a boyfriend,’ Elizabeth exclaimed.

  Frederick smiled and patted her hand. ‘She’s thirty-six,’ he said. ‘I don’t think she’d call him a boyfriend. And she can run her own life.’

  ‘I just like to know!’

  He smiled. ‘I know you do. But that little bird has definitely fled the nest. She’ll tell you when she’s ready.’

  Patrick, finishing his conversation with his sister, said, ‘Good-bye, Happy Christmas,’ in his most charming voice, and put down the phone.

  ‘That’s done,’ he said.

  ‘Fancy Miriam living with a man,’ Elizabeth said to her son: her youngest child, her favourite.

  Patrick chuckled. ‘Brave man,’ he said.

  ‘But fancy her never saying!’ Elizabeth wondered. ‘She must know that I would want to know. It’s so eccentric of her to try and cut us off like this.’

  Patri
ck shrugged. Ruth had a sense of quite scandalous nosiness. ‘Surely she’s had boyfriends before,’ she said.

  ‘Never one that passed muster,’ Frederick said tactfully.

  ‘Completely awful people,’ Elizabeth said roundly. ‘One young man who lived in a tent and travelled around the country trying to stop people building bypasses.’

  ‘An ecologist,’ Frederick supplemented.

  ‘Shall I phone back?’ Elizabeth hesitated. ‘Now she’s had a chance to cool down. So we can have a proper chat?’

  ‘Leave it,’ Frederick counselled her. ‘She’ll tell us all we need to know in her own time.’

  They went through to the drawing room, and when Thomas became fretful and sleepy Patrick took him upstairs to his cot. Elizabeth sat on the sofa and looked at the gardening book that Ruth and Patrick had given her. Ruth sat in domestic peace and silence and felt the afternoon stretch unendingly before her.

  ‘Let’s go for a walk,’ she suggested.

  Patrick, who had been settling down for a doze, was reluctant.

  ‘Do you good,’ said his father unsympathetically. ‘Work some of that weight off your middle!’

  ‘And there’s Christmas cake for tea, remember!’ Elizabeth warned. ‘Go on, both of you! I’ll wake Thomas when he’s had his nap.’

  It was sunny and cold. Patrick walked briskly down the drive. ‘I’m glad you suggested a walk,’ he said. ‘I was ready to drop off! Where shall we go?’

  ‘Let’s go to our house,’ Ruth said.