Dreams of another day, p.17
Dreams of Another Day, page 17
When he did not look around, she ran after him to the bridge and then saw that he was someone completely different. Stricken with disappointment, she apologised and turned to walk back the way she had come. A tiny muscle under her right eye fluttered uncontrollably and her legs ached. She felt thwarted and foolish.
Leaning against the hard stone parapet of the embankment on the south of the island, looking across the slow, grey-green river, Ming told herself that Mark might not have received her letter, that he might be waiting until she was back in her own flat before he telephoned her, and even that he might have been so surprised by what she had written that he wanted to see her before he wrote anything back. She also told herself with an attempt at detachment that he might well have had enough of her uncertainties and vacillation.
On that thought Ming stood up, squared her shoulders and walked on to Notre-Dame. By the time she got there she could not remember why she had come and instead crossed the Petit Pont to the Left Bank in order to browse among the second-hand bookstalls that ran in a dark green line along the embarkment.
Looking at the batches of prints hung on clothes-pegs, picking up a book here and there, Ming gradually banished Mark to the back of her mind. She found a charming illustrated edition of some Russian fairy tales, which she bought for Gerry, and leafed through the collections of nineteenth-century fashion plates until she found a set that might please Flixe.
That evening Natalie and Bertrand took her to see two short ballets by Manuel de Falla. She had never heard his music in London and sat in amused delight watching Le Tricorne danced against the wonderful set designed by Picasso. At the end she emerged into the red-and-gold foyer more cheerful than she had been for some time.
Bertrand had ordered some wine for them, and it was standing there with a glass in his hand, surrounded by well-dressed men and women in frocks from the great couturiers, that he asked Ming quite casually whether she knew what representatives of her government had been doing in Paris.
She shook her head, still smiling in amusement at the cheerful debunking ballet she had just seen. She was not really interested in anything her government might have been doing until Bertrand told her what he had heard. According to his informants, various Englishmen had attended two secret meetings at a house in Sèvres, where they had discussed the possibility of a joint attack on Egypt to be carried out by the British, the French and the Israelis. After much negotiation a protocol had been signed that day setting out what had been discussed.
Ming’s delight in the ballet was overtaken first by surprise and then revulsion as Bertrand told her what the three governments had agreed. Apparently on a certain date the Israelis would launch an attack on Egypt through the Sinai desert. In order to stop the Egyptians from destroying Tel Aviv with their Russian-made bombers, the British air force would bomb the Egyptian airfields as soon as possible after the attack.
When the Israeli army had reached striking distance of the Suez Canal the French and British governments would issue an ultimatum to the Israelis and the Egyptians demanding that they cease fighting and withdraw to positions ten miles from the Canal. If they did not, and it was considered most unlikely that the Egyptians would withdraw, then the French and British armies would launch an assault on the pretext that they were fighting to protect the Canal.
‘I do not believe it,’ said Ming, standing white-faced in front of Bertrand.
‘Careful of your wine, Ming,’ he said, pointing to her glass, which she had quite forgotten. It was tilting so much that as she started some of the wine spilled over the edge.
She licked it off her hand as simply as a child, which made him smile.
‘What don’t you believe?’
‘I do not believe that the British Government would behave in so underhand a fashion.’
‘But it’s very sensible,’ said Bertrand, looking as cynically amused as she had ever seen him. ‘They want to fight Nasser. Without the Americans, France and Britain do not have enough strength to be certain of winning. We need the Israelis. This way your government does not need to let its people know of the alliance.’
‘It’s not that,’ said Ming, biting all the lipstick off her bottom lip. ‘Are you sure?’
Bertrand shrugged, looking like every Frenchman in an English play.
‘No. It is what I have been told. My source is usually reliable. If you put anything in your magazine, you must not say where you got it.’
‘Of course not,’ said Ming.
A bell rang and they went back to the auditorium for the second of the short ballets, L’amour sorcier. Even de Falla’s thrilling music could not make much of an impression on Ming as she thought over and over what Bertrand had said. She was vaguely aware of the heroine battling to release herself from the ghost of an old lover so that she could give herself to a new one, but it seemed quite unimportant. The colourful figures of the dancers moved in their intricate patterns on the stage but all Ming could think about were the patterns that would be made by the dead in the pale pinkish-buff sand of the Egyptian deserts she had seen encroaching at the edge of the fertile strip beside the Nile.
She remembered her moment of instant identification with the furious young men who had flung stones at the cruise boat and felt uncontrollably angry all over again.
Chapter Twelve
Ming went miserably back to London with her mind almost equally full of the apparently inevitable war and the fact that Mark had not even tried to get in touch with her. Her transparent offer of herself seemed ridiculous in retrospect and his silence was humiliating. To cap it all, she knew that there would be an anonymous letter waiting for her at home and loathed the thought of it.
Throughout the short flight back to Heathrow, she tried to read the newspapers she was offered by the stewardesses. There seemed to be a lot of articles about the Russians misbehaving in Hungary, but she found she could not concentrate on them.
When she reached her flat and saw the pile of letters on the hall table, she dropped her suitcases and seized it. On top of the heap was the plain white envelope from SW1 that she had expected. Feeling coldly angry, she ignored it and shuffled through the rest of the pile. Right at the bottom was a letter addressed to her in Mark’s firm writing. Ripping it open with shaking fingers, Ming read the salutation and closed her eyes in relief. Then she read on:
Dearest Ming,
This is just to let you know that I am taking my belated leave at last. I’m off for a couple of weeks or more to stay with a friend from university. I’ll give you a ring when I get back.
I’m sorry for being so difficult after Gerry’s lunch party. It was hardly fair.
Mark
Ming looked quickly back at the date and realised that he had probably left London before he could have received her letter. Released from the conviction that she had ruined everything that Mark had tried so patiently to build, Ming felt strong enough to deal with the other expected letter and went to fetch her paper knife.
Over the months during which she had been getting the anonymous letters she had found herself quite unable to stick her fingers under the flap to open the envelopes. The thought of touching paper that her hateful correspondent had licked made her feel sick. She had gone out to Woolworth’s and bought a plastic paper knife, which she kept for that one task alone.
Well, Ming, did you think you could escape by going to Paris? Fool! You’ll never be rid of me. I’ll always know what you are doing and who you are seeing.
And I know that you are causing your usual trouble wherever you go. People are being hurt because of you, just as they always are. Take care you don’t go too far.
With fingers that felt as sticky, swollen and boneless as a bunch of sausages, Ming thrust the single sheet of paper back into its envelope and put it into the overflowing shoebox where she kept all the evidence of the nameless writer’s hatred. She told herself that a few lines of typed words could do her no harm; that anyone could have found out that she was going to Paris; that the letter did not betray any real knowledge of her character or life; and that there was no reason to think that the writer knew anything of the way she had hurt Mark.
Considering the hurt, Ming became more determined than ever to make up for it, but until Mark answered the letter she had written from Paris there was nothing more she could do.
Instead she turned to work, sitting down at her desk to write notes of the allegations that Bertrand Bernardone had made and sketch out a plan for an article based on them. When she had finished she rang Connie at Etchingham.
‘I couldn’t wait until next Tuesday,’ Ming began, ‘because I’ve got so much to tell you.’
‘All right.’ Connie had hoped to hear a real change in Ming’s voice, but she sounded just as tired and worried as she had before she left for Paris. ‘How was Paris?’
‘Beautiful, and rather sad … no, not exactly sad. Hard to describe. I’ve done a piece. I thought I’d bring it down on Tuesday. But that’s not why I was ringing.’
‘I don’t understand.’
Ming repeated everything Bertrand had told her. Connie kept absolutely silent until Ming had finished.
‘And I think we ought to do a story, don’t you?’ she said when she had finished relaying her information. ‘After all the notion of parts of our government making that sort of secret agreement is pretty shocking.’
‘I don’t think it can possibly be true,’ said Connie slowly. ‘And we could never print allegations like that without some kind of corroboration. The unverifiable information from an interested French source? Much too dangerous.’
Ming felt as useless as an inflatable boat with a large gash in its side.
‘I suppose you’re right.’
Hearing the depression in Ming’s voice, Connie could have kicked herself.
‘Why not try to find some proof of the story in London? If it is true it would be a wonderful scoop, but in our position we can’t risk being wrong. All right?’
‘Yes.’ Ming sounded slightly more energetic. ‘I’ll see what I can find before I come down on Tuesday. How are you and Max?’
‘Fine. But we’ve missed you these last two meetings. The excerpt from Story of a Lost Love has drawn a mixed bag of letters,’ Connie said. ‘Quite a lot are favourable luckily.’
‘I’m glad. Will you give my love to Max?’
‘Yes. He’ll be pleased. Goodbye, Ming. Don’t work too hard.’ Connie put down her telephone.
Leaving the rest of the post untouched on her desk, Ming went to unpack and have a bath to soak the remains of the tiredness and unhappiness out of her bones. She was still there when the telephone rang.
Pulling herself out of the bath, she wrapped a thick towel around her dripping body and padded to the nearest telephone, which was on the kitchen dresser.
‘Ming, is that you?’ Mark’s voice was wonderfully familiar and desperately welcome.
‘Yes. Mark, how kind of you to ring.’ He laughed and Ming’s lips curved in pleasure at the sound of it.
‘And how kind of you to write. Ming, darling, it was wonderful to get your letter. Did you mean what you said about regretting that we never …?’
‘Yes,’ she said, flushing slightly. ‘I realise I’ve been most awfully selfish all summer. I wasn’t deliberately teasing you, Mark. I do hope you understand that I was just muddled.’
‘I do understand. Can I see you?’
‘Of course. Now?’
‘Really? Can I come to the flat?’
‘Why not? I’ll be here,’ said Ming.
She went back to her bath, washed and dressed in a comfortable blue woollen dress. Pinning a pearl brooch to her left shoulder, she thought about what she was going to do and tried to ignore her last few doubts.
When she had done her hair and clipped on a pair of pearl earrings, Ming looked around the bedroom to check that it was tidy. The last thing she wanted was any kind of avoidable embarrassment for either of them. Drawing the curtains and switching on the silk-shaded porcelain lamps at either side of the bed, she began to feel as though she were arranging a stage set.
As she tried to get rid of that uncomfortable sensation, she checked that Mrs Crook had made up the bed with clean sheets and noticed how cold they were. It crossed Ming’s mind to fill two hot-water bottles and she found herself laughing at the incongruity of red rubber bottles and a night of illicit passion.
She was still amused as she took her dirty stockings into the bathroom to thrust them into the laundry basket. The front-door bell rang and she went out to meet Mark with a smile on her lips.
‘You look heavenly,’ he said as he came through the door and took her in his arms.
His face was thinner than it had been when they last met and much less tanned. She reached up to lay her hand on his hard cheek and when he smiled at her she could feel the tightening muscles of his face. The sensation reminded her vividly of Julia’s picnic and she was almost sure that she was right to do what he wanted.
‘How are you, Mark?’ she asked gently.
‘I’m fine now.’ He took her hand away from his face and held it between both of his. ‘Although I wasn’t before. Are you sure about this?’
Ming smiled. A nerve started bumping in her throat and she put up her hand to still it.
‘I promise I won’t run out on you again,’ she said, adding with difficulty: ‘I want you, too, you know. I think I probably always have. I simply didn’t realise it. You must think I’m a complete fool.’
‘Never that,’ he said, thinking that she looked like herself for the first time in months. Or perhaps it was just that he could see her properly again. He pulled her close to him again and stroked her hair with his lips, smelling the clean scent of her shampoo.
‘You’re shaking,’ he said, sounding worried. ‘Ming darling, making love now isn’t a price that has to be paid. We can wait.’
‘I know it isn’t a price,’ she answered, raising her head. ‘It’s just been a very long time since I was in a situation like this and I’m not certain … I don’t know …’
‘It’s all right,’ he said again, suddenly confident that he could carry them both over the last few obstacles that stood in the way of his heart’s desire. ‘You’ll see. Don’t be frightened.’ He took his arms away from her, and went to open her bedroom door.
Ming walked past him and he followed her into the pretty, warmly lit room and put his hands on her shoulders.
‘Look at me,’ he said. She raised her dark blue eyes and very deliberately smiled. ‘That’s better, my darling. This is supposed to be a pleasure; if it isn’t for you, then it can’t be for me, and I don’t want it. Understood?’
‘Understood,’ she said and suddenly everything seemed all right. They lay down together and he began to talk, telling her why he loved her and what he wanted for her, keeping his almost overwhelming desire within rigid bounds until he felt her begin to relax.
He made her feel cherished and soon she found the confidence to turn to him. Very gently he took off her earrings and unpinned her brooch, laying them all carefully on the bedside table. He turned back and took her face between his hands.
Later, after she had given him everything for which he had longed and he had given her pleasure undreamed of, they lay at peace, holding hands and sometimes turning their heads on her pillow so that they could talk. It struck her at one moment that it was absurd of novelists to talk about women surrendering to men; there could be no greater physical surrender than the one Mark had just made as he lay, spent and defenceless, in her arms. She felt protective and touched by his vulnerability, and she was glad that she had at last been able to give him something.
‘Ming,’ he said as the old French clock on the chimney-piece struck eleven, ‘tonight you have given me more than any man has a right to. Thank you, my love.’
‘Oh, Mark,’ she said, turning to lay her hot cheek on his shoulder and tucking her head under his chin. ‘I’m sorry I held out for so long. I never wanted to make you unhappy.’
‘No,’ he said, holding her to him. ‘You have made me complete.’
They slept and then woke, very hungry, an hour later. Ming got out of bed and suggested cooking bacon and eggs and Mark laughed.
‘That would be splendid, darling.’
‘What’s so funny?’ asked Ming, tying the cord of her thick velvet dressing-gown around her waist. She was so relieved to see his grey eyes clear and happy that she smiled affectionately at him despite his obvious mockery.
‘The extent of your culinary repertoire,’ he said at last. ‘Perhaps when we’re married we’ll both have to go and learn to cook.’
Ming’s delicate lips straightened as she looked at him, trying to decide whether he was making a joke. It worried her that she could not be sure. He noticed her stillness and got quickly out of bed to stand in front of her.
‘What is it? What have I said? You look stricken, Ming. Darling, tell me.’
‘Mark,’ she said and it sounded inside her head as though her voice was coming from a long way away. ‘I thought you got my letter. The one I wrote from Paris.’
‘Yes, I did. That’s why I’m here.’
‘But I told you in that I couldn’t marry you.’
He stood looking at her in a silence as puzzled as her own until he became aware of his nakedness. Turning away from her, he found his clothes and quickly dressed. When he turned back with his shirtsleeves flapping, she was still standing where he had left her, with the same, beaten expression on her face.
His eyes narrowed as though he were trying to see through acrid smoke that was making them smart.
‘You let me make love to you,’ he said slowly as though his brain was still not working properly. ‘You … I thought you’d changed your mind at last and were saying “yes”.’
