The House Within Page 11

  ‘Exactly,’ Gerald said, warming to Patsy. ‘That’s quite right. I mean, look, men are having a bad enough time these days. Some women expect everything. No gratitude for anything. That’s what she’s like now. You know, she had that house to herself, she didn’t come out of it badly and, God knows, she didn’t put much into it from what I can gather.’

  It was as if he was talking about someone else with whom Peter had never been associated, let alone married to.

  ‘That’s how I look at it,’ said Patsy. ‘Nothing could have been fairer than the way Peter left her.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter where you go these days, women are getting the best of everything. I tell you what,’ Gerald leaned confidentially towards Patsy, his fingers tapping out their message, stacc-a-to, stacc-a-to-to, bang, bang, ‘I have arrangements with women now. I can tell straightaway whether they’re for real or not. If I go out for a meal with a woman I expect her to pay her share, straight down the middle, none of this meal ticket stuff. I’m nobody’s fool. They pay, we meet again, they hang back, I know their hand’s in my back pocket. That’s what real liberation’s all about, Patsy.’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t agree more,’ cried Patsy. ‘Double standards.’

  ‘I don’t expect Bethany has much money,’ said Peter.

  ‘Well, that’s not my fault, Peter,’ said Gerald. ‘I did what I could.’

  Peter was stunned. Gerald really meant it. Somewhere along the way Peter had had another black mark chalked up against him and he hadn’t said anything.

  ‘Confidentially, Gerald,’ said Patsy, moving forward, ‘I think Bethany’s a very demanding woman. It’s a front for laziness.’

  ‘Oh, lazy. My dear. She had a cat that shat in the corners.’

  ‘You mean she didn’t clean it up?’

  ‘Oh, well. When it suited her.’

  ‘Oh, my word. Peter told me what she was like. See what you escaped, my darling.’ Patsy put her hand on Peter’s. He moved it away but she didn’t seem to notice.

  ‘I must say I think it was awfully decent of you to go back to her though.’

  ‘I thought I should. Tsst. Then she said she could stand on her own feet.’

  Peter thought it time to close the conversation. He realised, with dismay, that Patsy had begun to enjoy it.

  ‘Andrew must be through with his call.’

  They didn’t seem to hear him.

  ‘Peter said that place had gone to rack and ruin,’ Patsy was saying.

  ‘I put in a vegetable garden for her but Peter’ll tell you what good that would do.’ He gave a funny little gesture and Peter thought, he really hates women. All this time, and I’ve never cottoned on to it. Really hates them.

  ‘She did have a herb garden,’ said Peter. He had forgotten but now the memory was like an inspiration revisited.

  ‘Oh, that. Yes, she kept that,’ said Gerald. ‘You can’t live on herbs though. I mean, can you?’

  Peter thought about Bethany bending over her little bed of plants, her thyme and sage, her salad burnet and feverfew, the lad’s love, the rue, the mugwort and the heart’s ease, picking delicately between them with her slim brown hands. He wondered why he had never realised before that she did it so well.

  He said, ‘She was a good reader. And she said you liked the same things.’

  Gerald stretched and yawned. ‘Petit bourgeois. Very suburban. She didn’t make much progress.’

  Patsy said, ‘I’m reading Passages.’

  ‘Enchanting,’ said Gerald, and yawned again.

  ‘I’ll find Andrew,’ said Peter.

  ‘Your job must be very exciting,’ said Patsy, working hard at regaining Gerald’s interest.

  ‘I’m making progress now,’ said Gerald. ‘You have to free yourself first before you can move forward.’

  ‘I thought that was what Bethany was doing,’ Peter remarked to no one in particular.

  ‘Pe-ter!’ said Patsy. She leaned towards Gerald, who was back on her side. ‘You know Gerald, Peter went through hell over that woman. He’s such a conscientious person I think he felt really guilty after they’d split up. I used to tell him how silly it was. It’s awfully good, meeting you like this. He had this crazy idea that he could have done better, but of course it’s quite obvious you’ve been kindness itself, too, and no thanks at all.’

  Gerald was nodding his way through this. Peter could feel a fresh attack coming on.

  ‘Quite, quite,’ Gerald said excitedly. ‘I can see you’re a very understanding woman.’ His face shone moistly. ‘If there’s any way I can help, Peter, you know that’s what I’d really like.’

  I’ll bet you would, Peter thought and excused himself on the pretext of catching his firm’s director before dinner. It was natural that Patsy should want to know about Bethany, he told himself. She could ask Gerald the things she couldn’t ask him because he wouldn’t let her, had put up barriers to keep out the past.

  He was weighed down with a great sadness. For a few moments there he had been outraged, but unable to discern with whom he was angry. Now he thought it was with himself for ever having believed that Gerald would set him free of Bethany’s pain. He wondered how he could have been so blind, how he could have gone on believing in Gerald even when he most disliked him, and saw that it was a wilful act of his own salvation. Yet Gerald had said that Bethany was liberated, whatever that might mean. From what? From him? From Gerald? He supposed he would never know.

  He looked back at them and at the same time glanced round, looking for Bowman. He was still nowhere to be seen. Patsy’s eyes were shining, her lips parted, listening to Gerald’s words. He saw the fingers on the counter, knew they were making their stacc-a-to-to sound, watched the gesture. Gerald’s excitement was mounting. He was talking about freeing men from women’s shackles. Peter tried to consider the difficulties of living with a woman who kept an incontinent cat and a herb garden and wondered if it was really as bad as all that. Obviously he was in no position to disagree.

  He wondered if Patsy had chosen her duty-free goods to take home and how much they would cost him.

  SINGLE WING

  IN ANSWER TO her request, Peter had written to Bethany to say that he did not want to sell out his share of their joint matrimonial property. When she had written to ask him why not, he replied that it might not be in her best interests, and anyway, how was she going to pay for it?

  She sent a letter by return mail saying that he was being paternalistic and ridiculous and it was none of his damn business how she paid, but, if he really wanted to know, she did have her old job back.

  Peter wrote to say he was delighted she was working again, although he hoped it wasn’t too tiring with a family to look after, and it was time she enjoyed having a little money of her own, so why spend it on something that wasn’t necessary? He wouldn’t put her out of the house; indeed, he could not do so until Stephen was eighteen anyway, even if he wanted to (there was an edge there, Abbie was six years younger than Stephen) and the whole point was that she needed the money and he didn’t. He had lots of it now.

  Bethany replied that she wanted to be independent, that their marriage was ten years behind them now, a great deal had happened in that time, and she wanted to face life without any of the old ties. Besides, it was even more simple than she had already told him. She had money. She had invested the return from Ritchie’s insurance policy after he died, some for Stephen when he grew up, and the rest, well, she’d just waited to see how she felt about things. That’s what people had told her she should do, and what the lawyer had advised. It was five years now since Ritchie had died, and she had had plenty of time to think about it. This was what she wanted to do with the money.

  Peter was outraged. How dare she spend Ritchie’s money on something she didn’t need?

  The next letter was very cold; correspondence had become acrimonious. Being free of him was exactly what she did need, and if she had had any doubts about it before, now she was sure. He had signed
over the children’s life insurance policies to her when they separated and the money was hers to do with as she chose. She supposed he had forgotten the existence of the policy and failed to realise that the money was there until now, seeing it had now become so important to him. Although they both knew that wasn’t true.

  By the same token, Peter didn’t know what was true either. He had a fair idea that in law she was right. It was certainly her money and as he had already pointed out to her that he didn’t need money, his position in this respect was indefensible. He could still hang on to the house though. Or at least he could put up a fight about it, though he didn’t really understand why it was so important to him.

  But he was a fastidious man and the thought of wrangling over what still came down to the question of money accrued through a dead son offended him. He believed she would know that. If she had hoped to achieve an agreement in this manner, however, she was wrong.

  He didn’t reply to the letter. The months passed, he was busy, worked late, went to business lunches, had his wife Patsy entertain clients at their home in Rose Bay, took her to the Opera House, saw new plays and increased her allowance. They enrolled Jason, now eight, at a private school; even at that age they almost missed getting him into Knox Grammar. Patsy retold the drama to various sets of their friends with different embellishments. A little too often perhaps. She told the story to Peter’s executive director one night after her fourth martini and when it came out as a great achievement on Peter’s part, Bowman might have been forgiven for raising his eyebrows a little, considering that it was he who had had the necessary connections. It disturbed Peter a great deal, even though Patsy rang Bowman the next day and apologised and said it was just that she was so proud of Peter she got things mixed up. Peter spent days wondering if it would go on his file, agonised over whether they should have a dinner party to cover the gaffe, decided it would be better to let well alone and started talking to Patsy again a day or so later. In short, life went on.

  The next letter was from Bethany’s lawyer. Bethany was prepared to take him to court to get possession of their house. Peter was glad he had at least said ‘their’ house. It recognised something, though, again, he wasn’t sure what. Perhaps that he had built some of the house himself, with his own hands.

  He wrote to Bethany and said that if she would hold off with the lawyers he would discuss selling her share. He had to come to New Zealand on a business trip soon, and he would be in touch.

  Now, as he waited for her to answer his knock, he didn’t know where to hold his hands or what he would do with them when she came. He had wondered whether to bring flowers or a bottle of wine, or both. In the end he had brought neither. It seemed a rational decision. A gift might imply acquiescence. Or it might suggest that he was happy to visit her here in the house with the children. The previous day he had phoned her from Auckland to invite her to lunch but that was impractical because of her job at the hospital which meant she couldn’t count on a regular lunch hour. So then he suggested dinner in town. She said she would like him to come round to dinner, to eat at home. She had sounded civil and efficient and firm, and because she was at work he had not argued.

  He didn’t like it, though.

  And he had never, even in the days when their embarrassingly quick divorce was going on, had to stand on this doorstep and wait to be admitted.

  Through the house he heard her footsteps approaching. His stomach tightened, and he turned to look down the garden, much as he remembered it, although the lawns had been freshly mown. Stephen’s work perhaps. His second son would be fifteen now. A crisp winter’s evening with a hint of frost in the air. In the last glowing light he saw that the plum tree had gone.

  The footsteps hesitated, stopping behind the door. She waited a moment longer than was necessary before she opened it.

  She extended a cool hand for him to shake. That was the last thing he had expected but he was pleased she had resolved their greeting for him.

  ‘Hullo, Peter.’

  He stood on the step wondering whether to wait for her to invite him in. All the decisions seemed to have been taken away from him.

  ‘The plum tree. What happened to the plum tree?’ he blurted.

  Her eyes travelled down the garden. ‘It got deadwood in it. I had to have it taken out.’

  ‘You should have had it pruned.’

  ‘Probably.’ Her voice was dismissive.

  She had started back into the hall, leaving him to follow and close the door behind him.

  ‘Stephen,’ she called. ‘Your father’s here.’

  She waited for a moment but there was no sound except from the television set in the lounge. ‘He’ll come, I expect.’

  A defensive note, perhaps?. Apparently the plum tree, which pained him so much, was of no importance; or else, she had prepared herself for all his attacks. But he hadn’t attacked her about Stephen. He hadn’t said anything.

  As he followed her he noticed her figure. The last time he had seen her she had been ugly with grief at their son’s funeral, and lumpy and overweight as well, dressed in badly fitting old clothes. She must have lost two stone at least and a plain straight green skirt fitted neatly over her bottom. Her cream silky blouse was tucked tidily into a trim waistband. She wasn’t exactly stylish but you would notice her in a roomful of people, of that he was sure. But then, how could he ever not notice Bethany, anywhere?

  ‘What have you been doing? I’ve never seen you so slim.’

  She turned her head, smiling slightly. ‘Self-control.’

  Her skin was very clear and her shiny brown hair was gathered up from the nape of her neck into a loose coil on the top of her head. He noticed a fleck of grey beside her ear.

  ‘You’ve changed,’ he said.

  ‘Possibly. We all do, don’t we? Or haven’t you?’

  She had turned to face him now, and something in her look suggested that she thought he might have.

  ‘It depends. You have to take a rest sooner or later, don’t you?’

  ‘Or stop running?’

  ‘Now look here, Bethany,’ he began, and he thought, you bitch, you total bitch, you’ve brought me here so you can have the upper hand.

  In the kitchen, dinner smelled appealing. He had forgotten that she could cook well. If anyone had asked him he wouldn’t have known how to answer. He would have probably remembered the mince and the stews and yesterday’s cold roast with salad, as if they were the only people in the street who had them. Which would have been stupid, because everybody made do in those days, when they were still married. In fact, when the occasion demanded, Bethany was quite accomplished. He could see he must be careful how he judged her.

  On the defensive again, and he hadn’t got as far as the sitting room.

  He expected to find Stephen in front of the television but it was Abbie. At least he supposed that that was who it was, for she had been four when he last saw her at Ritchie’s funeral. Now she came up to Bethany’s shoulder and her hair was very long and silky. She was uncannily like his sister-in-law Anna as a girl, and if Ritchie had been alive they would certainly have been taken for brother and sister. Resentment flared in him again. The child had no right to share family resemblances without being his. At least she didn’t look like Gerald, who Peter had always suspected to be without much chin, though it was difficult to tell because of the beard.

  ‘Hi, Peter,’ said Abbie cheerfully. ‘Have a good trip?’

  ‘Very good,’ he said, taken aback. The child must only be a year older than Jason but his son had no graces at all. He would have to speak to Patsy about it. Come to think of it, the kid was always riveted to the television. They’d had one put in the rumpus room so that they could have some space to themselves when they or their visitors didn’t share Jason’s tastes, which was most of the time.

  ‘Shall I turn it off?’ said Abbie, indicating their set.

  ‘Please,’ said Bethany.

  ‘I suppose you haven’t got as many
channels as we have,’ said Peter.

  ‘Two,’ said Bethany. ‘But we can only get one properly here. It’s dreadful really.’

  ‘Do you really have breakfast cartoons?’ asked Abbie.

  ‘Yes. Frightful. I can’t keep my son away from them. You wouldn’t watch them, would you?’

  ‘I might. They could be fun,’ said Abbie, grinning at her mother. Bethany took a small swipe at her.

  ‘Go and see if you can find Stephen,’ she said.

  Abbie wrinkled her nose. ‘Yeah, okay,’ she said.

  ‘Nice kid,’ said Peter, as Abbie disappeared.

  ‘I think so. Drink?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘I’ve got Scotch. Is that all right? Or some gin. There should be enough.’

  He had forgotten that some people didn’t keep everything. Her bottle of Scotch stood unopened on the sideboard. She must have bought it specially for his visit.

  ‘The Scotch would be fine. Water, no ice.’

  ‘Strong drink.’

  ‘I think I need it. Mind if I sit down?’

  As she poured, he looked around the room. It was not so different from what it had been when they first went there — how many years ago now? — eighteen maybe, he had lost count. The shape of the rooms, he could expect them to be the same, the wood and plaster that held the house together, the feel of it. Why should it be so different? His house. He must hold on to that.

  ‘Is that all right?’ She held out his drink to him, uncertain of herself in this routine.

  It was very strong. ‘It’s just right,’ he said, and meant it.

  She sighed with relief.

  ‘You’ve having one?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ She poured for herself, more confident, and more moderate, he noticed. She carried it over to the fireplace, and seated herself carefully near the flames. They glowed on her face, making it look glossy.

  ‘Cheers,’ she said, raising her glass, and sat back, moulding into the worn hollow of the heavy old vinyl-covered armchair. It was one of the first pieces they had bought. The rest of the furniture was more modern, cheap, practical stuff without much character. The textures and colours around them had changed. Bethany had always liked browns and golds, whereas he preferred blues and greens. Her tastes were reflected now, in the curtains and the carpet, and the cushions were handwoven. Taken piece by piece it was not much, but put together it could have been a lot worse. And it was very clean. This fact struck him forcibly.