Can you keep a secret, p.20
Can You Keep A Secret?, page 20
Finished with the recollection, Niall gave a sad shake of his head, and we could all see the pain it caused him. Rachel reached across and put her hand over his, her expression softening. ‘You loved him, didn’t you?’
‘I was fond of him, yeah. I really looked up to him. And I suppose it’s true that I’ve tried to emulate him in some way. If I can be as good a father to my kids as he was to you guys—’
‘I would have liked to have children,’ Patrick said then, and we all looked at him. ‘It’s a peculiar sort of failing, isn’t it? The failure to breed.’
‘You’ve still got time, man. No need to give up yet. Eh, Lindsey?’ And Niall winked at me across the table. We had all grown uncomfortable with the turn the conversation had taken.
‘I really couldn’t comment,’ I said, trying to meet his levity, but underneath it I felt a thread of doubt. It was one of the things that worried me about the course of treatment I would be embarking on. Would chemotherapy harm my chances of one day having a baby of my own?
‘I’ve had some of my eggs frozen,’ Hilary announced, and then giggled at our startled silence. ‘Just in case.’
Niall gave his head a slight shake of amazement, then turned his attention to Rachel. ‘What about you, Rach? Got some of your eggs in the freezer?’
Meeting his gaze coolly, she said: ‘No point. They wouldn’t be able to do anything with them. I have Asherman’s Syndrome, you see? My uterus, it turns out, is an inhospitable place.’ Her tone was light, seamless, and yet the charge in her words made us all fall silent.
Hilary was the first to react. ‘Jesus, Rach. That’s awful.’
‘Forgive my ignorance,’ Niall began, ‘but what is Asherman’s …?’
‘Scarring or adhesions in the womb,’ Rachel went on, in her falsely bright tone. ‘Typically caused by a D&C after a miscarriage or a delivery. Or, in my case, a termination.’
She sipped from her glass, then put it down, a sort of primness in her manner that gave away her brittle discomfort.
‘You had an abortion?’ Hilary asked quietly.
‘Yes. When we were at school. Didn’t you know? Well!’ She laughed her false, tinkly laugh. ‘That was one thing we managed to keep quiet! Still, I suppose you could say that, as a family, we are quite adept at hushing things up.’
Her lashes fluttered as she looked around the table. Niall had lowered his head, and Hilary held her napkin to her mouth; both looked somewhat shocked by the admission. As for Patrick, he met his sister’s gaze with disapproval, and was about to say something, I’m sure, when the door opened and Felicia’s head appeared around it, saying: ‘If you don’t mind, Patrick, I’ll be off now.’
She issued some instructions about dessert, although none of us seemed inclined to eat anything further.
Patrick got up to see Felicia out, and even though the rest of us remained seated, waiting in silence for his return, it seemed apparent to all of us that the dinner was beyond recovery.
23
1992
‘Can you keep a secret?’ Rachel asks.
By now it is May and, even though Rachel doesn’t know it, I have been carrying the burden of her secret for some weeks. Keeping my distance, I have observed her dreamy introspection, knowing full well what thoughts fill her head. I have struggled with myself, wondering how to broach the matter without betraying what I was a witness to, what I overheard that night. But every hint that I have dropped has been met with a self-satisfied silence, every opening I have created has been ignored. Her romance with Ridge is something best nursed in secret, and I have felt rebuffed by it, excluded, pushed out.
It is not until I am back at Thornbury for the first time in months that she chooses to tell me. We are lying in a pool of sunlight under the sycamore tree. Spring has burgeoned in the trees and fields beyond. The sun coming through the branches turns the leaves acid-green. We have hauled the rug out here on to the grass, idly reading our books after lunch, but Rachel – an avid reader – seems too distracted to read. I can feel it in her – the tug towards him – and I know that it is only here, at a distance from her lover, that she can open up about him. As if by telling me about him, she can conjure him up with her account of their great romance.
‘I’m in love,’ she tells me, and I almost laugh out loud at the word.
Instead, I put down my book and play dumb. ‘With who?’ I ask, and she bites her lip, half afraid, half thrilled at the bombshell she’s about to drop.
‘Promise you won’t tell?’ she says again, and it is only when I swear on my life that she acquiesces. ‘It’s Ridge,’ she says, her eyes widening with a challenge and then darting all over my face for my reaction.
I feign surprise. ‘Mr Ridgeway?’ I say, and she nods vigorously.
‘Are you shocked?’
When I admit that I am, she leans forward so that she is lying on her stomach, peering up at me, and she says with urgency: ‘Oh, Lindsey, you can’t tell anyone, do you hear? Tim would kill me if he knew I was even telling you.’
‘Tim? Is that what you call him?’
‘Of course! You can’t expect me to call him Ridge, can you?’
‘I dunno. It’s odd, that’s all. Hearing you call him that.’
She giggles, then turns over on her back and closes her eyes, momentarily losing herself in some private trance.
‘Isn’t he a bit old for you?’ I ask.
‘He’s only thirty-one. That’s younger than my father was when he fell in love with Heather.’
‘But Ridge is our teacher. Don’t you see how weird that is? And kind of creepy?’
‘You make it sound like he’s some kind of perv.’
‘Some people might see it that way.’
‘I couldn’t care less about people like that. The fact is Tim and I were both drawn to each other. It’s not like he was some predatory male and I was an innocent, unwilling victim. I wanted it as much as he did!’ Her eyes are open now, and she has rolled back on to her front to face me.
‘How long has it been going on?’
She shrugs. ‘A while. Three, four months maybe.’
‘Is it serious?’
‘Yes.’ Her eyes lock on mine in a challenging way. ‘We’re in love.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course!’
‘Have you had sex with him?’
She blushes, which surprises me, and lowers her eyes. ‘Yes.’
‘Oh my God – Rachel? That’s illegal!’
She looks up quickly. ‘Oh, but you can’t tell anyone! You swore on your life!’
‘I know, but what if something happens? What if you get caught?’
‘We won’t.’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘We are …’ she begins, then, glancing around to make sure no one is listening, she lowers her voice and says: ‘discreet.’
I draw back from her, undone by a sudden visual confrontation with their intimacies. And yet, inside, I find myself leaning forward, curious, wanting a better look.
‘Where do you do it?’ I ask tentatively, and she picks at a blade of grass and sighs.
‘It’s, like, really difficult finding places to be alone. Mostly in his car – there’s this place we go. A couple of times in school.’ Her eyes flare with mischief. ‘That was really nervy. Tim kept looking around, convinced someone was going to walk in on us. I swear, it was hardly worth it!’ She giggles again, and I find that my curiosity, rather than being slaked, is only further aroused.
‘What’s it like?’ I ask softly, my heart beating inexplicably loud.
‘Sex?’
‘Yes.’
Her gaze grows distant and that look comes over her face – knowing and secretive. It’s a look that pushes me further from her rather than drawing me in, reminding me that I am uninitiated, and she has left me behind.
After a pause, she says: ‘Spectacular,’ then presses her lips together. It’s not enough, though.
‘But the first time,’ I persist. ‘Did it hurt?’
She laughs then, leaning back to rest her weight on her elbows. ‘My first time with Tim wasn’t my first time.’ She sees the surprise on my face, and shakes her head in mock-exasperation. ‘Oh God, Lins – surely you must have known that? Niall and I did it ages ago.’
‘What?’
‘You remember the night of our play last summer?’
‘The night in the folly? You did it then?’
‘Uh-huh.’ She closes her eyes and shakes out her hair. It’s a preening gesture that makes me suddenly angry. How have I been so blind? And why didn’t she tell me until now? It further exacerbates the distance I see opening up between us. Cowed by the wealth of her sexual experience, I feel my own meagre forays into that field hanging limply about me.
‘Wouldn’t you prefer to be with Niall than Ridge?’ I ask.
‘God, no!’ she scoffs.
‘At least he’s closer to you in age.’
‘Niall is ridiculously immature.’
‘Someone else, then. Marcus or—’
‘Marcus?’ she squeals. ‘He’s gay!’
The word hits me like a slap in the face. For the second time in a few short minutes I feel winded by information so obvious and yet, somehow, I have been blind to it. How have I been so naïve?
She is back talking about Ridgeway again now. ‘Tim is going to leave St Alban’s. He might even go back into research. His old colleagues at the hospital are always on at him to come back …’
I imagine the two of them together, like the night of the disco, and ask her: ‘What about pregnancy?’
‘It wouldn’t be so bad.’
I look at her in shock – something in the way she says it makes me feel funny inside.
‘It would be a disaster,’ I tell her.
‘I don’t think so. I think it would be nice to have his baby. We’d be a proper couple then.’
She is smiling at me. I ask her if she is out of her mind, and she just places her hand on her belly.
She could be playing a trick on me, I think, but she lowers her head and her hand remains where it is.
‘I’m late,’ she says softly, and I feel a twinge of panic.
‘How late?’
‘Enough for me to know I’m going to keep it.’
I cannot believe it. Her serenity in the face of her predicament is baffling – maddeningly so.
‘What about your parents?’ I splutter.
‘They don’t know.’
‘You have to tell them. I mean, it’s not like they’re not going to notice.’
‘Oh, I’ll tell them all right. But not yet. Not until enough time has passed.’
Her steadiness amazes me.
‘If they found out now, they would make me have an abortion. But if I wait until after Patrick’s birthday, then it will be too late for that.’ A secret smile comes to her lips, and it appears to me superior and self-satisfied. She wants me to be happy for her, but instead I feel angry and confused.
‘Your parents will kill you,’ I tell her. ‘And him.’
‘That will be their initial reaction, yes. But they’ll come round. Besides,’ she adds, ‘it’s not like they were paragons of virtue when they were my age. Did you know that Heather got pregnant when she was seventeen?’
I didn’t know, and the shock must briefly register on my face.
‘Oh, yes. It was quite the scandal,’ she tells me, enjoying herself. ‘A shotgun wedding ensued. Seventeen. Only a year older than I am now. So you see, they hardly have a leg to stand on, do they?’
I am dumbfounded by her scheming, as well as the revelations about her parents’ marriage. And then a thought occurs to me. ‘Does he know? Ridge. Does he know about the baby?’
This wipes the smug look off her face.
‘Not yet. I’m waiting for the right moment to tell him. But I know he’ll be happy. I know this is what he wants.’
‘Do you?’
‘Of course,’ she says, but I hear the quiver of uncertainty in her voice. ‘I can trust you, can’t I? You’re not to tell anyone. Ever. You have to swear on your life to say nothing, do you hear?’
I do as she asks. I swear the words, but they sound hollow and flimsy, like promises extracted over silly childish things, when we have moved well beyond that. Her face relaxes. She leans back, closing her eyes to the sun. But now I am burdened by her secret, and it weighs on me, and I feel more clouded and miserable than ever.
My dispirited feelings continue through that day and into the next, although Rachel doesn’t seem to notice. She doesn’t notice anything beyond her own moods these days. Love has made her selfish. When she asks me the next morning if I mind being alone for a couple of hours – Heather wants her to help out at the local church fete – I am content to let her go. Some time alone is welcome and, once the others leave, I go out into the gardens around the house – slick with recent rainfall – and take some photographs using the Leica Peter has given me. He has stayed home, too, and when I have tired of traipsing through the damp grass, I decide to seek him out. Reminded of his promise to show me how to use the dark room, I knock on the door of his studio then push the door open.
He looks up, startled, and something crosses his face – an expression I can’t pin down, but it makes me wish I had waited for him to call out before entering the room. There is a large book open on the desk in front of him, and I have the impression that he has hastily slipped something between the pages in the instant that I opened the door.
‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have disturbed you,’ I say, confused by that flash of guilt on his face.
‘No, that’s quite all right,’ he counters, then arranges his face into a more benign expression. Holding out his hand and gesturing to the chair in front of him, he urges me to come forward. ‘They’ve left you all alone,’ he remarks, as I close the door behind me.
I come forward, the camera in my hand, feeling bashful now that I am in front of him. I try to recall that sense of closeness I felt the last time I saw him – that windy afternoon in February – remembering his words to me: Sometimes I think you’re the daughter I should have had.
‘I’ve been taking photographs,’ I say hesitantly.
‘Ah.’
‘I was hoping you might show me how to develop them,’ I try, but I catch the faintest hint of reluctance in his face, and stammer, ‘But you’re busy. I’ll leave you.’
I start to back away and I see it flash across his face again – a beat of indecision – before he puts up a hand to hold me there and says, ‘No. Wait.’
He looks down at the book on his desk, and opens it to where a small bundle of additional pages are amassed.
‘Come and look at these,’ he suggests, and as I step closer I see that they are photographs. Black and white or sepia-tinted, and I can tell, even from a distance, that they are old. The thickness of the paper they are printed on, along with the dog-eared corners and the glossy shine, point to their age. From the form and composition, I think they must be portraits. It is not until I am standing there at the desk and he pushes one and then another towards me, that I see that the subjects are all naked. The whiteness of the flesh seems to loom large in the midst of the shadows, and I try not to gape or show my horror at the expanse of flesh before me. Victorian life models, he calls them, but I barely hear him. Blood is thundering in my ears as I look on these nude women standing stoutly with fabric draped over their bulky arms, leaving their breasts swinging. One model sits on a stool with her back to the camera, her buttocks spread over the velvet cushioning. Another has hair in ringlets, her hand resting against her thigh, a pastoral scene painted on a screen behind her as she gazes dreamily into the distance as if unaware she is being captured so fully in the flesh.
‘It’s my little hobby,’ he says softly, a trace of awkwardness in his tone. ‘You could say I’m a bit of a collector. I can see that you’re shocked.’
‘No,’ I say, but my voice catches, and I put my fingertips on the desk to steady them. My mind is catapulting in all directions, confronted by this strange mosaic laid out in front of me.
‘All through the ages, man has captured the human form through art. And even though photography is a relatively new art form, it has made huge strides in that area.’
He talks some more about the history of the presentation of the human body through art and, even though some of it makes sense, I can’t help but feel aware of my own flesh beneath my clothes. I am embarrassed by these images, while at the same time indignant. These photographs feel in some ways like violations. Is it right that these women, long dead, should have their breasts, their privates, their buttocks, exposed in this manner to generations to come? There is something faintly sinister about them and, when his voice penetrates my thoughts, and I hear him say: ‘Well, Lindsey? What do you think?’ what I answer is this:
‘They remind me of the animals in the hall. The taxidermied ones.’
And he stares at me for a moment, and then lets out a brief, uncertain laugh, and says: ‘I think I see what you mean. The way they are frozen in time.’
Imprisoned by it, is what I think. But I don’t say that to him. Instead, I pull the images closer, allowing myself to be drawn in. I’m so confused by how I feel – bombarded by these images, unsettled by his possession of them, just as I was thrown by Rachel’s revelations.
But there is something else. Something in the way that he has allowed me to see them. He has drawn me into his confidence. He has respected my opinion enough to show me his collection.
‘These are not like the topless models you see splashed across page three of the Sun,’ he explains patiently. ‘There is beauty here. Sensuality. And history. You do see that, Lindsey, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Yes, I see that.’ And my voice has recovered from nerves and comes out clearly, with confidence, and this makes him smile.
