A Natural Curiosity Read online

  ‘Barbara! Ingrata!’ shouts the deceived Ferrando.

  Last time she had been to Fanny Kettle’s for a drink, Fanny had engaged her in the most appalling conversation about AIDS. How had it happened, how had she, respectable housewife, mother of two, and part-time speech therapist, permitted it?

  There had seemed to be no resisting, no turning back. ‘What I don’t like to think about,’ Fanny had said, balancing a tumbler full of gin and tonic on her plump upholstered chair arm, and wriggling her bracelets on her thin wrist, ‘is the idea that the virus sort of hangs around for years, I mean, I don’t mind being a little careful now, but what about all those episodes six years ago, seven years ago? Before we knew anything? One might have caught anything, in those days.’ Fanny giggles, changes tack slightly. ‘Do you remember those cholera graves, outside the churchyard wall, that we used to walk past on the way back from school? And how everybody said they were still full of cholera, and that if you went near them it might leak out, and how they didn’t dare move them to widen the street because cholera germs never never die? Do you remember?’

  Susie nodded: yes, she remembered those schoolgirl superstitions. But Fanny was not content with the harmless, distant past. She returned to more recent alarms.

  ‘I mean, that Frenchman who picked me up in the Gatwick Hilton, now I think about it, he could have been anyone, he could have been anywhere. One can’t tell with the French, can one? Or at least maybe you can, but I can’t.’ Susie listened, wide-eyed. Fanny reminisces, relentlessly. ‘Though now I think about it, he was the one who was so obsessed with hygiene. Insisted on us both getting into the bath together and scrubbing ourselves before we got on with it. I thought he was just kinky about baths with strange women, but maybe he knew something I don’t know? He can’t have done, can he? It was’—she counts on her fingers—‘at least seven years ago. Nobody knew about AIDS then, did they?’

  Susie is lost, shocked, has no idea and yet has every idea of what Fanny is talking about.

  ‘No,’ concludes Fanny, to her own satisfaction, ‘I’m fairly sure he was just kinky. He had a suitcase full of porno magazines. Fairly mild stuff, but all to do with water, now I think about it. Bathroom scenes, showers and swimming pools and that kind of thing.’ Fanny sighs, for the good old days. ‘I feel sorry for young people,’ she says. ‘They’re going to have a hard time, eroticizing the condom. Don’t you think?’

  Susie had not known what to think, for her own sexual experience (as surely Fanny must divine?) had been confined to a few harmless pre-marital flirtations, a doomed romance with an inept young medical student with whom she had slept perhaps half a dozen times and who had left her for a radiologist, and marriage to Clive Enderby. Since marriage she had been faithful to Clive, and had never been much tempted to be otherwise: the nearest she had got to temptation had been a lunch-time meeting or two in the hospital canteen with Stewart Folger from neurology, who had seemed to like to get next to her in the queue with his tray and to make occasional plaintive and pointed references to his wife, who had run off with an ophthalmic surgeon. Not much risk of catching AIDS from Stewart Folger, Susie reflected. Fanny seems to suggest that everyone in Northam and Hansborough was at risk, whereas Susie was quite convinced that the kind of behaviour Fanny seemed to think normal was aberrant, deviant, almost pathological.

  Or was it?

  ‘Hai vinto!’ cried the conquered Fiordiligi. ‘You have prevailed!’ she sobbed, as she flung herself into the arms of the triumphant but betrayed Ferrando. Cosi fan tutte. Cosi fan tutte, tutti.

  Susie hears the door open, hears children’s voices downstairs. Guiltily, in a hurry, she banishes her dubious oyster-coloured consumer romance fantasies, strips off her wrap, struggles into her camel skirt and beige cashmere sweater (which don’t quite go with her new hair, but never mind, all the better for that), runs a comb through her new hair, puts an everyday expression on her face, and runs lightly down the stairs to greet William, Vicky, and the bad-tempered Danielle. ‘Hello, darlings,’ she cries, and kisses the little ones. Danielle glowers, crossly. Susie puts the kettle on for tea, chatters brightly as Vicky unpacks her felt-tip drawings of the day and displays a painted egg box, as William complains about a character called Ollie Cox, and shows her his sketch of an Iron Age Celtic chariot, as Danielle grudgingly gets out the Marmite and the honey. Susie feels flustered, at a loss. ‘Look, Mummy,’ says Vicky, unrolling a tattered scroll, ‘look, here’s a picture of you and Daddy!’ Two stick figures in bright green, with huge inane smiles, stand square and large on the page. They are holding hands, after a fashion. One has short hair sticking straight up, the other has orange curls and a short triangular miniskirt. They are strangely recognizable. ‘Lovely, darling,’ says Susie, faintly cheered, as she slices a Marmite sandwich into fingers, and reminds herself that it is only two months, two weeks and three days until Danielle’s departure.

  ‘To Paris?’ says the middle-aged travelling man. Shirley nods. She has declined a second Dubonnet, on the grounds that she is or will be driving, but has accepted an orange juice, and allowed him to join her at her table, where he sips his second drink.

  ‘I haven’t been to Paris for years,’ she confides, misleadingly: implying that she once visited France frequently, and for some casual reason has allowed this habit to lapse. Well, perhaps the implication is not all that misleading, for in the prosperous old days she and Cliff had taken several package weekend breaks in Paris, had stayed a few days there once or twice with the children on their way to summer holidays in Spain or the South of France. Shirley is not totally unacquainted with Paris. She recalls, fleetingly, visiting a nightclub with Cliff. Cliff had tried to get her to argue with the waiter and the bob-tailed semi-nude hostess about the price of drinks. ‘Go on, you speak French,’ he had said, when his own efforts at protest had been shrugged off.

  ‘Yes, but not much,’ Shirley had said, remembering a few phrases from Battersby Grammar O-Level, ‘and anyway, not that kind of French.’

  ‘Go on, Shirl,’ Cliff had insisted, and Shirley had been forced to try phrases like ‘Monsieur, sur le menu il dit vingt francs et vous avez dil cent francs.’ The waiter, not to Shirley’s surprise, had continued to pretend to be bewildered, and after a lot more huffing and puffing Cliff had been forced to pay up. But he had felt guilty about this little display of unreasonable anger, and as the cancan dancers lifted their legs and showed their scarlet skirts he had taken Shirley’s hand and squeezed it in apology. Shirley had enjoyed the seedy splendour, the bright lights, the steep views over Paris, the street thronging with people in the warm night air, the hot friendly breath of the Metro, the displays of oysters and langoustines and lemons and sea urchins and prickly erotic monsters of the deep. Was that perhaps the night that Celia, the austere Celia, had been conceived?

  ‘I suppose Paris must have changed quite a lot in the past few years,’ Shirley says, mildly, to her new companion. ‘Do you know it well?’

  ‘Quite well,’ he nods, reflectively, modestly, a man of the world. ‘Quite well.’

  ‘And do you come this way often?’

  He shrugs. ‘Usually I fly,’ he says. ‘But this time I had to bring the car. To pick up some stuff. From my ex’s apartment.’ A rueful little smile disguises a more sombre note. Shirley thinks, Aha, I guessed right. He too is in trouble. Obviously. Why else would we be talking to one another? She is in a dilemma. She does not know whether to continue the conversation or not. She smells danger, involvement, confidences. Is this what she wants, what she has come to seek? She cannot be sure. Yet.

  ‘Do you think they will ever really build the Channel Tunnel?’ she asks, politely, harmlessly. ‘Would you like to be able to drive to France? Will we be able to drive, when they finish it, or will it just be for trains?’

  They discuss the Channel Tunnel. Cliff had been very keen on the Channel Tunnel. He thought it was go-ahead. Shirley shares with her new friend her unfavourable impressions of the motorway fa
cilities, and of the as yet unserviced M25. She is talked into acknowledging that she comes from South Yorkshire.

  Is he a detective, planted there to apprehend her and take her home against her will? No, surely not. He wants to talk about his ex. Ex-wife? Ex-girlfriend? Shall she let him? It would be safer, surely, than saying more about herself. Delicately, she probes.

  Ah, but here is real pain, real, banal, everyday pain. A crossChannel love affair, solid for ten years, now in ruins, and worse than ruins, for her new friend is now discovering that some of those ten years have been far from solid, have been marked by hidden treachery. His woman, he hints, had been carrying on behind his back for most of those years. He blames himself for having been so gullible, for having accepted the way things were, for having been decent, loyal, trusting. These are not the words he uses about himself, but this is what he implies, what she receives. He has been the faithful party, the victim. And now he is on his way to pick up his books, his shoes, his clothes, his birthday presents to and from her, his specially designed armchair.

  ‘It’s for my back,’ he explains. ‘It’s made to measure. I have a bad back. I hope to God it fits in the car.’

  He laughs, lightened by confession. She likes him.

  ‘Yes,’ he says, ‘it’s the end of the affair. She’s moved out already. Won’t even see me. Not that I want to see her. Ever. She’s gone off to live in the Marais. I forget, did you say you knew Paris well?’

  Shirley, smiling, shakes her head. Not well, she says, not well.

  And are you, perhaps, on a little holiday, he inquires? A spring break? He is only being polite.

  Yes she agrees, a little holiday.

  And will she visit the new gallery at the Musée d’Orsay? All Paris talks of it, visits it, queues for it, he assures her.

  Yes, she says, she probably will. She has not heard of the Musée d’Orsay.

  And is she spending her holiday alone? Escaping, perhaps, for a little peace and quiet from her family obligations? Or will she be meeting friends in Paris, staying with friends?

  Shirley’s head begins to thrum and throb. The note of polite, civilized sympathy and interest in his voice assaults her defences. She feels a little faint. She shuts her eyes for a moment. The boat is heaving and lurching.

  ‘Are you feeling all right?’ he asks, anxiously. ‘It is a little on the rough side today, isn’t it?’

  His tone is impeccable. Courteous, restrained, unintrusive.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she says. ‘I’m fine.’ And then she hears herself go on to say, ‘My husband died this week. I’ve run away. Yes, that’s what I’ve done, I’ve run away.’

  Her eyes are still shut. The ferry creaks and slaps its way on. He hesitates, then she feels his hand upon her hand.

  ‘Oh. I say, my dear, I say,’ he says, ‘I am so sorry. I say, poor thing, I say.’

  Tears stand in her eyes, her lip trembles. She stiffens it. His voice is so acceptable, so miraculously acceptable. Who would have believed it possible? A human being is speaking to her. She has been locked into solitude for years, for a decade at least. Now, somebody speaks, a stranger speaks. He does not rise and reject her, he does not run away in shock. He pats her hand and says, ‘Oh, oh dear, poor thing.’

  She opens her eyes and smiles, bravely. He is leaning towards her, full of concern. ‘There, there,’ he says, and pats her hand, then withdraws, in case he should cause offence by too much solicitude.

  They sit there like that for a minute or two, in silence. He offers, again, to get her a drink—a soft drink, a glass of water? She shakes her head.

  And where is she staying in Paris, he wants to know? She shakes her head. She admits that she has no idea.

  ‘I left—on impulse,’ she says. ‘I had to get away.’

  The ferry is nearing Calais. The gulls cry.

  ‘But will you be all right, on your own?’ he wants to know, as announcements are made about the rejoining of cars and the not switching on of engines.

  ‘Oh yes,’ says Shirley bravely, but when she rises to her feet she is shaking violently. Her teeth chatter, she is suddenly, mortally cold. Her legs will hardly support her. Surely, at this stage, he will summon a doctor, summon the police and desert her? She should never have admitted a moment of human weakness, it has destroyed her.

  He takes her elbow. ‘Look,’ he says, ‘you’re not fit to drive. You’re not well.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she says, as she stands there trembling. She takes a deep breath, calms herself by force. ‘I’m fine,’ she repeats, and starts to move calmly towards the door, towards the stairs to Car Deck B. He follows her. He follows her to the door of her little red Mini, watches anxiously as she unlocks it and climbs in. She sits there and rests her head for a moment on the wheel. The truth is that she has no idea how she will ever get the car off the ferry, her knees are shaking, her heart is pounding, her head is buzzing, and however would she in this condition manage to drive to anywhere on the right-hand side of the road? It was a miracle that she got up the gangplank onto the ferry at all. She will never get off. She sits upright, smiles again. He is still there, hovering.

  ‘Look,’ he says, ‘let me help.’

  She cannot believe her ears.

  ‘Let me help,’ he repeats. He can read her mind.

  ‘Look,’ he says, ‘you get in my car, and I’ll drive you off, then come back for yours. Then we’ll think about it.’

  She begins to cry, noiselessly, and bows her head again over the wheel. He takes her elbow, helps her to her feet, takes the car keys from her, lets her into his own car, into the passenger seat of a spacious, elderly, slightly battered grey Citroën. ‘Just sit there,’ he tells her, and she sits obediently, as he vanishes, then returns. ‘They say they’ll drive it off for you,’ he says. ‘Is that all right?’

  She nods.

  ‘I’ve told him to follow me,’ he says. ‘Is that all right?’

  She nods again, and sits there as the ferry docks, as the bow doors swing open, as he starts up the engine. ‘I told them you’d been taken ill,’ he said, with a hint of returning humour, growing intimacy. ‘They were very understanding,’ he said. She smiles acknowledgement, but dares not speak. ‘This kind of thing probably happens all the time,’ he says. The car moves forwards, she turns round, sees her own red Mini with a uniformed seaman at the wheel. The seaman waves encouragement, starts up after them.

  They reach dry land, park. Money changes hands. Her new friend is good at such things. Everybody smiles, including Shirley. The seaman departs.

  ‘And now,’ he says, ‘what now?’

  , ‘I don’t know,’ says Shirley. All sorts of possibilities are passing through her head. She does not know what to say, what not to say.

  ‘I wanted to disappear,’ she says, forlornly, in the hiatus.

  He shows no sign of losing patience with her. He sits and waits for more.

  ‘They don’t know where I am,’ she offers.

  ‘You can leave your car here, and come to Paris with me,’ he offers in return.

  ‘But they’ll find the car,’ she says. ‘I should never have brought the car. I nearly left it in Luton. I ought to have left it in Luton.’

  ‘We’ll leave it,’ he says. ‘In the supermarket car-park. Could you drive, do you think, just a few minutes? You could follow me.’

  She nods.

  ‘We’ll get your things out first,’ he says. They get out, into the fresh cold air, into a light rain, into the darkening afternoon. The cold revives her. They transfer her suitcases, her raincoat, her plastic bags to the boot of the Citroen. She has become a hostage.

  ‘All right,’ she says, and gets back into the driver’s seat of her Mini.

  ‘Just follow me,’ he calls. ‘And drive on the right, remember!’

  She follows him, slowly, carefully until they arrive in a large, roughly surfaced, almost deserted supermarket car-park on the fringes of town. It is PARKING GRATUIT. Free Parking. How did he know it
was here, Shirley asks herself? Shirley parks her car with its nose in a corner, next to a small rusted van which looks as though it has been there for some time. She gets out. Her friend gets out. It is very cold now. He puts his arm round her shoulders, in a friendly, comforting gesture. They stand there, for a moment. He squeezes her far shoulder, lightly, slightly.

  ‘All right?’ he asks.

  ‘All right,’ she agrees. He opens his car door for her. She gets in, docile, passive, bold, and sits down, leans back, stretches out her legs.

  ‘You see,’ he says, with an air of patience, of reason, ‘you can’t just set off into the night, with no booking, and no idea where you’re going. When you’re not feeling well. Can you?’

  Shirley thinks. ‘Well,’ she says, after a while, ‘I suppose I could have done. If I hadn’t met you.’

  He turns the key in the ignition.

  ‘But you did meet me. Or rather, I met you. It was my idea, remember.’ He moves off, gently. The car’s suspension is very good, it rises softly up, then inches smoothly over the bumpy waste site, gathers slow speed on the tarmac, accelerates as he sets off towards Paris. She does not even look back, towards her abandoned loyal faithful decent red Mini.

  ‘You can spend the night in my apartment. No strings attached, of course. But at least spend the night there quietly, and think things over.’ He pauses, continues. ‘It will do me good, to have someone to look after. Take my mind off my own worries.’

  ‘You are too good,’ she says.

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘I’m just pretending to be, for a change. People tell me I’m not very good at all.’

  She gazes out at the dark mistletoed landscape of northern France.

  ‘But you can trust me,’ he adds, as an afterthought. ‘I’m quite a safe driver.’

  She laughs at this.

  ‘My name is Shirley,’ she says.

  ‘And mine is Robert,’ he says.

  They drive on, into the darkness. As they go, Shirley tells him something (not too much) about her flight. She leaves some details vague, purposefully vague. He listens, sympathetically, quietly, with the odd exclamation of commiseration. ‘Poor thing,’ he says, from time to time, ‘you poor thing.’ Then he tells her the story of Amélie and her infidelity. He had considered Amélie a permanence, a consort until death, a lover confirmed by distance, he tells Shirley: a perpetual romance. Amélie worked in Paris, he was taken by business affairs regularly almost weekly to Paris. He has suspected nothing. Yes, he had had a wife in England, years ago, but she had divorced him over Amélie and remarried. Quite happily, he thought. He had trusted Amélie. ‘It was by accident that I discovered,’ he said. ‘I arrived unexpectedly. The only time in ten years. The phone was out of order. I wish I had never found out.’