Craig Sherborne - The Amateur Science of Love

‘Thank you.’

‘Don’t thank me. I’m doing it for her.’

I couldn’t see Tilda at first. Sun lit the metal railings around the deck too strongly. Leaves from a lattice climber were too transparently green and shimmering. Then my eyes adjusted. She was on a canvas banana chair, dappled in shade, placing the glass of water she was sipping onto a tea trolley beside her.

The blouse she had on—it was the yellow one, the sunflower one from my first sighting of her in London. I’d forgotten we’d kept it. Eight years in a bottom drawer and now its moment had come, given a sentimental airing to re-arouse my love for her, or so I presumed. Her hair was plaited her favourite, stump-tailed way, pulled back tight, very tight. It had the effect of distorting her face, stretching her skin smooth. The nurse must have helped her get the tension. Her makeup was tan-like and shiny.

She raised her chin and smiled, a proud, triumphant show of teeth made to seem whiter by silvery red lipstick.

She said, ‘Some females are doormats. Others can wield a sword. I think I’ve proven I’m the latter.’

Her grinning disgusted me.

‘Come closer,’ she said. ‘I want you to see something. I love Scintilla. I love the people. The people are so kind and compassionate. See these? Delivered first thing this morning.’

She was referring to two cards in her lap. The get-well and greetings sort with Monet-type landscapes on the covers, lots of purple wisteria and blue.

She read, ‘Dear Tilda. My wife and I extend our sincere sympathy and support to you during this tumultuous episode. Signed, Hector Vigourman.’ She shook her head. ‘What a decent and dignified man. If only more men were like him.’

‘Is that so?’ I said.

‘Yes.’

‘He didn’t appear so decent just before, advising I use prostitutes.’

‘What are you talking about? Why do you want to say dreadful things?’

‘It’s what he said. Go to Melbourne and use prostitutes.’

‘Don’t make up lies to me. I don’t believe anything you say anymore. This town is all I’ve got left and you want to taint it. At least leave me that, while you go off with your Watercook whore. Why aren’t you with her?’

I blinked and lowered my head but made sure I lifted it up immediately so I didn’t look defeated.

Too late. Tilda had noticed: ‘Doesn’t she want you anymore?’

She grinned and read from the other card, ‘You showed him, dear. Signed, the ladies of Scintilla.’ She held the card for me to see. ‘These people understand the pain I’m feeling. A simple card like this and I think: There are good people left in the world. I think: If Colin wants to go off with another woman, then he can go off with another woman. He doesn’t deserve me. I will go off with another man. I will find a better man than he could ever be. I’ve proven how much I can love someone. I am prepared to kill to prove it. That’s how much I can love. Jealousy is proof of love.’

She began to cry. She covered her face with her right, gauntleted hand. Her fingertips were especially red and swollen. She must have done some violence to them at Donna’s.

‘Bastard,’ she said. ‘What a bastard you are. That’s what you’ve made me do, want to kill someone and humiliate myself by admitting to your face it was proof of my love. I bet you listen to me say it and deep in you it gives you pleasure that a woman would fight for you. Bastard.’

‘I don’t take pleasure.’

Tilda looked up at me.

‘I do not take pleasure. I promise.’

But here’s one final Swahili. There was pleasure. To be worth killing for is the supreme vanity. It places value on your life. And in having that pleasure I felt affection for Tilda. I didn’t kid myself that it was more than affection. It wasn’t the same as love. But seeing her reduced to a pathetic state was to see the power I had over her. To be the cause of her misery shamed me, yes, but left me affectionate and gentle. I wanted to heal her. Me loving her was all that could heal her. I wished I could offer her that. I even closed my eyes and willed myself to. I used the first time I saw her, that London moment. I let the memory of it circulate in my mind. I willed to be transported back there in spirit and have the original raw love sweep into my heart. Yet, when I opened my eyes, I only felt affection.

Tilda could tell I was trying from my clenched eyes and prayer-like rocking. It made her suffer even more that I had to try at all. She craned forward and snaked her arms under mine for embracing.

She said, ‘I can live with you not loving me. I can live that way. I can say to myself love changes and we have to change with it. I can say it’s time for us to be best friends now. We can stay together and be best friends and that’s how we live from now on.’

She kissed my cheek and my forehead, hard. She kissed me on the mouth. I let her, but I didn’t open my mouth. She said, ‘As long as there is no other woman, I can live that way. As long as there’s no other woman involved.’

She pushed me in the chest and swore Jesus and fuck . I was startled and braced for another push.

‘What am I saying?’ she said. ‘Look at what you’ve done to me. Reduced me to this. I hate you. And I hate her. I hate her so much.’

Tilda stood up. She stared me in the eye. I turned my head. She said, ‘I have to know, when did it begin? Where did it begin? Who made the first move? That Wilkins bitch did, didn’t she? She moved in on you, didn’t she? Pursued you and seduced you with her big fuck-me mouth and her fuck-me body.’

‘Yes,’ I lied. ‘Yes,’ I repeated, meekly, as if I too had been wronged.

‘I knew it. The bitch went after you. I knew it. The man who took those vows with me in that beautiful chapel, he wouldn’t betray me willingly. You were weak and that Watercook slut took advantage.’

I drew breath to say Don’t call Donna a slut . But where would that have got me? Tilda was showing me affection back, and pity, cradling my jaw.

She said, ‘Where did it begin?’

‘I can’t remember.’

‘Bullshit. I don’t believe you.’

‘The races.’

‘The races? Right under my nose at the races?’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘What about those two lunches?’

‘What about them?’

‘There was nothing between you there?’

‘No,’ I said, trying to keep the betrayal contained and limit Tilda’s recriminations.

‘Nothing?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Meetings. Where did you have your meetings?’

‘What meetings?’

‘Assignations. Where did you meet and fuck?’

‘Tilda, please.’

‘Where?’

‘Please.’

‘Where?’

‘At her place.’

‘With her daughter present?’

‘She was off somewhere.’

Tilda sucked in air. She sneered. ‘Where else did you do it?’

‘Nowhere else.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘I promise.’

‘Just at the slut’s house?’

‘Yes.’ I was not going to tell about the forest. The forest was on Tilda’s home ground. The recriminations would not be contained if she knew about the forest. ‘Just at Donna’s place. I promise.’

Tilda poked her finger in front of my chin. ‘Never ever, ever utter that slut’s name again. Don’t even think that slut’s name again. You can use slutty bitch or Watercook whore , but don’t dignify her with a proper name.’

‘Jesus, Tilda.’

‘ Slutty bitch or Watercook whore . Not even her or she. But especially her name. Never ever use her name. Or you can go. For good.’

‘I will go for good, then.’

‘You won’t renounce her? You won’t do it?’