Rosie Thomas - Sun at Midnight

She started on a laugh to distance herself from this possibility and then a flicker in Jo’s eyes made the laughter stick in her throat.

‘What do you know? Jo, please tell me.’

Jo hesitated. ‘Harry saw him one night. In a pub near Bicester.’

‘Everyone goes to the pub, Jo. Quite a lot of Pete’s working life seems to take place in them, in fact. What does he call it? Necessary inspiration?’

But when Jo said nothing Alice felt the last of her defences crumbling. Was I happy? she wondered. Or was I just determined to be? ‘Go on,’ she said miserably.

‘Pete didn’t see him, because he had his tongue down some woman’s throat at the time. That’s how Harry put it. He said they didn’t look as if they were going to get as far as the car park before they…well. I’m sorry, Al. I’m so tactless. I’ve forgotten how to talk to real people, haven’t I?’

‘Was it Georgia?’

‘It didn’t sound like her.’

‘No. I see.’

In the Moses basket Charlie stirred and gave an experimental whimper. Jo said, ‘It’s coming up to his lively time. He’ll be awake now until about ten. I thought you sort of knew about Pete and that was the way you chose to handle it. Knowing and not knowing.’

‘Perhaps,’ Alice murmured. Humiliation made her want to bend double, as if she had a stomach-ache.

‘You deserve better,’ Jo observed, lifting Charlie out of his basket as full-scale crying got under way. She rocked him gently, shushing him softly.

‘Perhaps,’ Alice said again.

‘Do you love him?’

Yes, she loved him. Or was it actually the idea of him that she loved, the concept of Pete? Not just the illusory domesticity that they had enjoyed, but the very way his disarray and lack of precision had made an anarchic foil for her own selfimposed orderliness?

Perhaps that was it. His work, his pieces of sculpture, were only just on the right side of giant rubbish heaps. (Of course they are, he would say. It is all a metaphor for our world. Arbitrary arrangements scraped together in a disintegrating society, drowning in its own discarded refuse. Or something like that. She never had quite mastered the language.) Whereas she had grown up with Trevor, sitting on a sun-warmed stone and watching her father frowning and scribbling stratigraphic measurements in his notebook. She had loved the names of the rocks. Gabbro and dolerite and basalt. The earth’s apparent solidity and her father’s dependability had somehow fused into a reassuring constant. It was only much later, as a geology student herself, that she began to appreciate the immense scale of the earth’s restlessness. And now, in her mid-thirties, as the balance of power between them shifted and her parents grew frailer, and as Pete’s shape shifted, her notions of what was solid and dependable were all being overturned.

‘I don’t know,’ she told Jo now. The realisation that she truly didn’t know shocked her.

‘What will you do? Tell him to behave or else?’

‘It’s a bit late for that. I was going to ask if I could stay here until he’s moved out?’

They were both holding a baby. The sun had moved off the garden and the light was fading.

Jo said immediately, ‘Of course you can.’

Alice made pasta for dinner while Jo bathed the babies and fed them again. Harry came home, his face creased from the day, and they juggled the wakeful twins between the three of them while they ate. Pete rang Alice’s mobile every half-hour, but she didn’t take the calls. He rang Jo and Harry’s number too, and Harry did pick up the phone.

‘Yeah, she’s here. But I’d leave it for a while, mate, if I were you.’

The calls stopped after that. Before she went to bed Alice spoke to her father in the hotel in Madeira. ‘Is she feeling any better?’

‘The doctor called in again. He’s been very good. We think she might be better off at home, you know, so we’re going to take a flight tomorrow. All being well, that is.’

‘Can you put her on?’

Alice put the flat of her hand against the wall of Jo’s spare bedroom, wanting to feel its solidity.

‘It’s very annoying,’ Margaret said into the phone. The words were hers but her voice was almost unrecognisable, falling between a whisper and a sigh.

‘You’ll be fine. Once you’re home. A couple of days and you’ll be yourself again.’

‘Will I?’ She asked the question as though she were a child.

‘Yes,’ Alice said with a tremor in her voice.

In their bedroom, Jo and Harry undressed for bed. One baby was asleep, the other cried every time Jo put him down. They would alternate this routine throughout the night. If he had to work the next day Harry usually slept in the spare room, but tonight Alice was in it. Jo walked up and down, rhythmically rocking the baby against her, willing him to fall asleep.

‘She’s very precise. Not detached, or unsentimental, not exactly. But she doesn’t waver, or change her mind. If she’s decided it’s all over with Pete then it’s over.’

Harry took off his socks, balled them up and aimed them towards the laundry basket. ‘Yes? Probably for the best, then.’

‘Maybe. I don’t know, though. She seemed happy with Pete. He countered that precision in her. Made her more spontaneous.’

Harry lay down and closed his eyes. ‘Are you going to get into bed?’

Jo smiled, sat down on the edge of the bed and swivelled so that her back rested against the headboard, trying at the same time not to interrupt the rocking. She wanted to talk to Harry now, piecing together the day’s events and impressions. Just for ten minutes, before she entered the hushed tunnel of another night when every living thing seemed to sleep except for herself and one or both of the babies.

‘Al’s my best friend. But sometimes I think I don’t know her at all. I mean, I’ve never even glimpsed it, but beneath all that cool logic there might be a wild heart beating. Don’t you think?’

There was no answer. When she looked at him she saw that Harry had plunged into sleep.

Alice went home for a change of clothes. Pete had been there, she could tell from the crumbs on the counter and a single plate and knife in the sink, but there was no other sign. There was no note and she thought that most of his belongings were still in their accustomed places. She registered this much, then dismissed the thought. The latest telephone conversation with Trevor had left a hard knot of anxiety in her chest. Margaret had had a bad night and was suffering breathing difficulties. There was some doubt about whether she would be able to fly home at all, although she was still insisting that this was what she wanted. Alice said to her father that she would meet them at the airport but Trevor told her that he had arranged a private ambulance. Margaret would be driven straight from the airport to hospital.

‘We’re probably being overcautious. But there’s no harm in that, is there?’ he said.

‘No. Of course not. I’m sure,’ Alice answered. They had somehow entered a conspiracy of matter-of-factness, in which they both pretended that this was a routine way of ending a holiday.

The flight left, with Margaret and Trevor on board. It was too early yet for Alice to think of going to the hospital to meet them. She washed Pete’s plate and knife and put them away, then walked through the house. It felt slightly unfamiliar, as if she had been away from it for much longer than one night. The arrangements of crockery in cupboards and books on shelves seemed irrelevant, as if already viewed through the distancing membrane of history.

After an hour she couldn’t bear the house’s silence any longer. She locked the front door and went to the Department. A few minutes after she arrived Professor Devine put his head into her office with a question about the minutes of the budgeting meeting. She told him about Margaret and he took off his glasses and replaced them again, a sign of dismay that she knew was habitual without ever having been aware of it before. Everything around her had a lurid clarity that balanced on the edge of nausea.