To Heaven by Water Read online

  ‘No thanks. Just another splash of the old unfiltered what’s-its-name.’

  Now she stands up and begins to dance, although the kitchen doesn’t offer much room and the low ceiling seems too cramped for one so astonishingly graceful. He watches, both entranced and uncomfortable, as she follows the music, although in a necessarily limited way.

  ‘Will you dance with me, David?’

  He imagines himself trying to pirouette around the kitchen and smiles, sitting back determinedly.

  ‘I can’t dance.’

  ‘You can. Of course you can.’

  She takes his hand and, when he stands up, she places one of her arms on his shoulder and the other around his waist. Soon there isn’t a paper between them and her body, unnaturally pliant and fluent, seems to have flowed over the rough and imperfect contours of his.

  ‘You never really forgave Nancy, did you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It was all bollocks then?’

  ‘More or less.’

  She laughs close to his ear.

  ‘Were you trying to make me feel better?’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘That’s so sweet.’

  She places a light kiss, so light it is like the passing of a moth, on his cheek.

  ‘Let’s go and do it.’

  For a moment he wonders what she means.

  ‘You’re my son’s wife.’

  Even as he says it, he knows he sounds biblical, his voice echoing in a wadi in Sinai.

  ‘That’s the whole point. I’ll have done something far worse than him.’

  He sees the logic in a way.

  ‘And me?’

  ‘It will be our secret. It will have to be, don’t you think?’

  He drinks coffee in this rumpled, ambivalent bed, which has taken on its morning demeanour. He feels himself unexpectedly set free, although he can’t understand exactly how this has happened. He tucks a towel round his waist and walks down to the kitchen, aware that he is an absurd figure. Underneath the towel, his cock and scrotum although weary, are still recognisably the original male attachments, which once on a filthy beach in Ostia he imagined with youthful hubris to have heroic qualities. What an arse. Last night – he wants to remember the precise details, in just the same way and for the same reasons that Simon wants to see every fresco in Tuscany – he remembered Jenni. But it was Jenni before she floated away into the dark water. The strange thing is that he didn’t see her terrified rictus and he believes that he never will again.

  He knows that he must go away, for Rosalie’s sake, for Ed’s and for his own. But rather than feeling guilty, he feels absurdly happy, almost ecstatic.

  14

  When Ed arrives back from Geneva, he realises that something of that city has got to him. He pictures the lambent lake with the huge water spout, the circling mountains lightly topped with snow, the clean streets, the yachts moored almost in town, the old city, which gives the citizens an interesting and risk-free glimpse of what life in Bohemia could be, and he sees the road to Mont Blanc and Chamonix as a highway to escape from Fennell, Dunston and Bickerstaff. Yesterday, while lunching in Le Grand Quai on schnitzel and rosti – done with a light, modern take – he was offered a job by Laurent Foubert, of Zwingli, Robinson, Foubert et Cie, to start next month. He has told Laurent that his experience of international trusts is limited, but Laurent says that he has enjoyed working with him over the last six months, and believes that he has what it takes; he suggests that Fennell, Dunston and Bickertstaff is going nowhere, way off the pace. He also says that Ed’s French is easily improved with daily saturation classes. The salary he is proposing is startling. He and Rosalie can make a new life, and the baby – he’s sure the Swiss know all there is to know about IVF – will be skiing parallel by the age of three. He will disentangle himself from Alice, if she hasn’t already done it herself. He will also escape from his old dad, whose large presence, scented with decay, still breathes on him. And he will leave London, which is far too complex and ironic and racked a place for family life.

  In Geneva, in the spirit of Calvin, the citizens believe in the redemptive power of activity: ‘What? Would you have the Lord find me idle when He comes?’ said Calvin, who was a trained lawyer, and this could be the city’s mission statement. Dad’s idea of redemption is the search for something beyond this world, as if life is other than the one we lead, a notion he picked up from Richard Burton, although in Rome he was probably dropping acid, as they used to say back then.

  Ed envisages a multilingual, snowy, and prosperous life. Laurent races huskies, which he says is a fantastic sport, very elemental, absolutely vital as an escape for the modern man. Ed knows nobody in Camden who races huskies. He has asked Laurent for a week to consult with his family.

  He goes straight to the office from the airport. Nervously he calls Rosalie but she is not answering. At least her phone is now on. The office looks benighted and Gloria, in front of the rather tacky plastic-brass sign glued to the dull-coloured hessian on the wall, is in her own way an affront to his new vision of life among the Euro elite who sail billowing yachts and race teams of howling huskies.

  ‘Morning, Mr Cross. How was Geneva?’

  ‘Fine, thanks. All well here?’

  ‘Hunky-dory, thank you.’

  From his office he buzzes Alice, but he finds her phone extension is giving a curiously insistent tone as if designed to encourage mental illness.

  He calls through to Gloria.

  ‘Gloria, where’s Alice today?’

  ‘Not sure, Mr Cross.’

  ‘Not sure? What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m not sure where she is.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I can’t say why. We was just informed by Mandy on Wednesday that she would be leaving the firm with immediate effect.’

  ‘Did she ever come back from her trip to Scotland?’

  ‘She just come in for an hour or so to see Robin.’

  ‘Is he here today?’

  ‘No, he’s in Southampton at the conference on family law.’

  ‘Oh yes, he did tell me. OK, thanks, Gloria.’

  ‘No problem, Mr Cross. Got to take a call. It’s gone mental here all morning.’

  He tries to call Alice but her mobile phone number is discontinued. Before he speaks to Rosalie – thank God she didn’t answer – he must speak to Alice to find out why she’s not here. He feels beleaguered. He can’t speak to Robin, he can’t find Alice, and now he certainly can’t speak to Rosalie until he knows what’s going on. His phone rings, and he sees, with a sinking heart, that it is Rosalie.

  ‘Hello, darling, just got in a few moments ago. I’m knackered,’ he says, the hint of self-pity to indicate that international jet setting is not all it’s cracked up to be.

  ‘How was Geneva, sweetie?’

  Her tone immediately dispels his foreboding.

  ‘It was great. Tiring, but great. Rosie, I’ve got to tell you, I have been offered a huge job there and I think we should go.’

  ‘Geneva? Good God. Can we discuss it?’

  ‘Of course, I’ve asked for a week to talk it through with you. I’ll be finished here about six and then let’s go out to dinner. Will you book somewhere?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘How are you doing?’

  ‘I’m fine. I think I may be pregnant.’

  ‘Jesus, that’s wonderful. How do you know?’

  ‘Nothing too scientific. I just have a feeling. A certainty, actually.’

  ‘Oh, OK. Will you take a Boots test?’

  He recognises that self-romanticising tendency, the confidence of a connection to higher spiritual truths.

  ‘Yes, I will take a test in a few days. But trust me, I am pregnant.’

  ‘God, I hope so. Rosie, I love you more than I can tell you.’

  He feels such a rush of affection – it’s only partly relief – that he is on the verge of tears.

  ‘I love you, too.’

  �
�Rosie, I am so sorry I have behaved so badly. All I can say is the pressure was getting to me. Whatever happens, we will see this baby business through.’

  ‘I know we will, darling.’

  ‘See you at six-thirty, seven. Love you.’

  Now he feels released. He wants to call Robin immediately to tell him that he’s resigning, but he decides that it is premature. His little office with its mean aspect will soon be replaced by a view of Lake Geneva – Lac Léman as the natives – we natives – call it. Down below, near the bins he sees a tramp pissing, as if to endorse his decision to embrace emigration. Mind you, emigration no longer has the same connotations of permanence: we are all citizens of the world; there is absolutely no reason why anyone should be confined to one country. Although he is prepared to accept that Romanian gypsies and Congolese militias should probably stay where they belong. He wonders if they have a ballet in Geneva. He Googles it: Ballet du Grand Théâtre de Genève. Isadora Duncan and Nijinsky both performed there. Since its inception it has explored the stylistic plurality of the dance of the twentieth century. Also, les jeunes are offered the opportunity to discover the lyrical arts and choreography, by means of diverse activities. Goodness! If Rosalie is indeed pregnant, there will be no end of possibilities – activités diverses – for a mother and daughter with balletic inclinations. Huskies, yachting, ballet. He also realises, with relief, that he can now cut his ties with Alice, and never try to speak to her. After all, she has made it very obvious that she doesn’t want to see him. Where, a few minutes ago, he was desperate to find out why she had left, now he thinks it best to accept with dignity and reticence her sudden departure and to prepare himself for his own. He calls Mr Fineman, who is delighted to hear from a big shot. The way he sees it, the little man has won: he believes he has achieved a major legal victory, which will give freedom to thousands; he sees himself as the Clarence Darrow of the North Circular Road.

  ‘Mr Cross, thank you. I have sent you a small gift.’

  ‘That’s very kind. Let’s meet soon.’

  ‘Have you had the gift?’

  ‘No, but I have just got back from Geneva.’

  ‘I dropped it off yesterday. I came on the number 19.’

  ‘Thank you. I will ask our receptionist.’

  ‘Goodbye. Olla sends her thanks also.’

  He feels touched by Mr Fineman. He doubts that in Geneva he will be dealing with the little people, if there are any, but he will miss him.

  ‘Gloria, have you got a package for me from Mr Fineman?’

  ‘Oh yes, sorry, it arrived yesterday.’

  ‘Can you bring it in?’

  ‘It’s still gone mental here. Can it wait a few minutes?’

  ‘No, it can’t. I’ll come and get it.’

  He strides truculently to the reception. Gloria has the parcel ready for him; without looking directly at him, she employs her very mobile face to indicate just how tied up she is with nuisance callers, such as clients. Back in his office he discovers that he has been given an enormous box of shortbread decorated with a tartan cover. He opens it and helps himself. The shortbread comes in five sizes and shapes. He tries to imagine why Mr Fineman would see this as an appropriate present after the famous legal victory. Then he finds a note: You made short work of them, Kind regards, Julius Fineman.

  He has another biscuit, and calls his sister.

  ‘Can you keep a secret?’ he asks.

  ‘I am the only one in the family who can.’

  ‘You remember I said I wanted to get away from Robin Fennell?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I have been offered a huge job in Geneva.’

  ‘Geneva? Isn’t that the city of the living dead?’

  ‘What do you mean? Have you ever been there?’

  ‘No, but it is famously dull. Banks sponsor art, everyone wears a suit, even in bed, and they make Swiss jokes.’

  He wants to tell her about husky racing but he guesses he may sound foolish.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. That is so typical. It’s one hour from Chamonix, the streets are clean and it’s one of the most sophisticated places in Europe.’

  ‘Oh dear. Have we cracked?’

  ‘Jesus, you are annoying. You’re supposed to say wonderful, congratulations.’

  ‘Congratulations. Wonderful. Have you told Rosie?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And she’s very keen to hear all about it. How’s Dad, by the way?’

  ‘I think he’s carrying on with a fancy woman.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Well, she came round to the house the other night and made herself right at home. Her dog settled in, too. In no time at all they shovelled me out of the door.’

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘Her name’s Sylvie. She’s a fruitcake with a dog. We met her on the Heath.’

  ‘What do you mean, “We met her on the Heath”?’

  ‘Dad and I were walking and her dog got lost and we found it. Or it found us. I think it is trained to get lost and find single men.’

  ‘What’s she look like?’

  ‘Massive talking knockers, loads of wavy hair, very enthusiastic. Speaks like a weather-girl.’

  ‘Sounds perfect. Maybe it’s not such a bad thing. Has it occurred to you that he’s lonely? It’s just possible he’s missing Mum.’

  ‘He could be. He rang me this morning to say he is going to see his brother.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘I don’t know. A few months at least. Uncle Guy is not well. Frans emailed Dad.’

  ‘I’m not sure Uncle Guy has ever been well. Anyway, how are you? And how’s Nick the boyfriend?’

  ‘Possible boyfriend. He’s on probation, but he’s great, so far. I’m seeing him tonight.’

  ‘Good luck.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean? That I need luck to pull?’

  ‘No, no. Just a general sort of blessing from your older bruv. Let me know how it goes.’

  ‘It’s funny with married people that they are always interested in other people’s sex lives. How’s yours, by the way?’

  ‘Believe me, I’m not interested in your sex life at all. And if that is a sly reference to Alice, that’s over. So over, as you would say. Goodbye.’

  If only she knew the whole truth. He wonders if Dad really is carrying on with this woman. In logic it’s absurd to expect your father to behave in a decorous way. And it’s absurd to think that there is an appropriate period of mourning but, despite his own lunatic recklessness, he hopes that his father is not in some way dishonouring his mother’s memory by jumping into bed with a woman he met on Hampstead Heath, someone blinded by his celebrity and probably just a little desperate. It’s not actually dishonouring her memory; it’s an attack on their childhood, which should be seen for ever through rose-tinted spectacles. What I have done is far worse. As he thinks about it, his cheeks become warm. Maybe there’s a hierarchy of betrayal, and maybe you expect more of your parents, as if they, at least, should hold on to some principles.

  And he thinks that this is undoubtedly the tipping point: he and Rosalie off to Geneva, where they will have a child, whether or not Rosalie is pregnant by the conventional method; Mum dead; Dad off to Africa and the old Cross family fragmented. Lucy will be free to pursue her own ends. She’s the most intelligent of us all and also the one most distressed by Mum’s death. But – he sees where the Tibetan Buddhists are coming from – you can discern a cycle going on here, and you can take comfort in that idea. Dad seems to understand this wheel of change better than Lucy. He’s trying to step out of his role as paterfamilias.

  Down below he sees another tramp, a woman: she’s looking through the bins. He can’t see her face, but there is something oddly predictable about her shape and bearing, as though tramps go to a school – diverses activités pédagogiques – to learn how to walk in this crabbed way and to carry their shoulders as though they are bearing a bundle on t
heir backs. A fardel. Why do words you haven’t heard for a million years pop into your mind? Fardel. Fred Vuliami at school read the word as ‘fartel’ causing wonderful hilarity among the twelve-year-olds. Even Mr Cheeseman laughed. Fred Vuliami died of a drug overdose at university and his parents split up, each believing that the other was to blame. Mum was always a forcefield of tranquillity because she had a very clear idea – maddening to him as a teenager – of how things should be. He sees that it is this steadiness which has gone from the life of the Cross family.

  Down below the woman has found something to put into one of the many bags she has attached to a Tesco supermarket trolley, which is her chariot of fire. Now she’s off, shuffling, busy, talking to herself, he imagines from the movements of her head, as she rounds the corner and he loses her from view. In his new, expansive, Helvetian mood, he recalls fondly one of Mum’s most annoying saws: all part of life’s rich tapestry. These tramps, one pissing, one foraging; Robin Fennell in his matching tie and pocket handkerchief; Dad in his cargo shorts and elephant-hair bracelets; Alice squeezing her breasts together to receive his sperm; Gloria with her mangled notions of gentility; me, Lucy – all of us – are part of this tapestry. In fact it’s a skein of hopefulness and delusion, but somehow it always holds together, whatever the setbacks. Mr Fineman, with his victory for the little man, demonstrates how some modicum of ideals, however mad, keep the human enterprise on the tracks. And he sees suddenly, with blinding clarity, that the urge to produce children is the most noble ideal of all, and at the same time he is overcome by the profundity of his thoughts – he’s really a lawyer-philosopher – and by his love for Rosalie, which he has so nearly put in jeopardy.

  He’s just about to call her again when Mandy calls him.

  ‘I have Robin on the line from Southampton.’

  ‘OK. Thanks.’

  He waits. Mandy comes on the line again, and tells him Robin won’t be a moment.

  Finally he speaks.

  ‘Eddie, sorry, I got caught up. Eddie, is that you?’

  ‘Hello, Robin, yes, it’s me. How is Southampton?’

  ‘Interesting. Very interesting. I’ll brief you when I see you. Now look, I wanted to speak to you privately but I have to stay on here overnight. I asked Alice to explain why she was back two days late from her trip to Scotland. I don’t want to go over the details, but she claimed that I was harassing her because she’d been having a relationship with you. As you had already assured me that no such thing had taken place, I chose to see this as further evidence of a slightly hysterical nature and told her to pack her things and go immediately. I consider the whole matter closed. Do you follow me? There are both Rosalie and your father to consider here, and I think that girl is a loose cannon. I value you very highly, as you know.’