Pat Barker - Double Vision

‘Good. Well done. How much?’

‘Three million.’

‘My God, Robert.’

‘It’s not going into my pocket.’ He hesitated. ‘Beth finds it very difficult.’

‘Oh? Why?’

‘Because part of the research involves the use of human embryos. And she has ethical objections. I suppose I shouldn’t have told her… But then if you can’t talk about the big moments, what kind of marriage is it?’

‘Pretty typical, I should think. A lot of married people live separate lives. They reach some kind of modus vivendi , and…’ He shrugged. ‘Don’t ask me. I didn’t manage it.’

‘All I know is I’m bloody well pig sick of it. I’m fed up with getting into bed every night with somebody who thinks I’m Josef Mengele.’

‘I can see you might get tired of that.’

‘It’s not funny, Stephen. She thinks I kill babies.’

‘And it’s not a minor flaw, is it? Not something you can overlook.’ He smiled. ‘There must be one or two women around who don’t think you’re Josef Mengele.’

‘Yes.’

Said flatly. Evidently no confidences were to be offered on that subject. ‘How bad is it?’

‘I don’t know. There’s Adam…’

‘Oh. That bad.’

‘And there’s the house. I can’t leave her stuck in there. She’s scared stiff when I’m away.’

‘You do go away quite a bit.’

‘I have to. It’s part of the job.’

A pause. ‘So what are you saying, Robert?’

‘That I’ve got to make a go of it.’

‘Would moving into town help?’

‘She loves the garden.’

Stephen had become aware of strains in his brother’s marriage, though when he first arrived he’d assumed it to be entirely happy. It seemed to him now there’d been a lot of masochism involved in his first impressions. He’d almost wanted Robert’s life to be in every way more successful than his own. It was a kind of wallowing in his own failure. But he was surprised to find Robert was thinking of moving out. ‘Are Beth’s objections religious?’

‘Yes. And they seem to be growing on her. It happens to some women at the menopause. I can’t respect it. I wish I could.’

‘Then you have to shut up and leave it alone. Can’t Alec Braithewaite talk to her? Isn’t he —’

‘He agrees with her.’

‘Ah, not entirely a menopausal symptom, then?’

‘No, I know. I’m being arrogant. Anyway, thanks for the drink. Thanks for listening.’

He tossed back the last of the whisky, almost like a foreign correspondent. Stephen was proud of him.

‘Do you have any views about it?’

‘What? Research on human embryos?’ Stephen shrugged. ‘I’ve seen too many kids blown to bits to worry about that.’ He took Robert’s glass. ‘How’s Adam?’

‘Running Justine ragged, poor girl.’

A slight constraint. Of course Robert and Beth knew. They couldn’t not know, with Justine’s car parked outside the cottage most evenings and occasionally all night.

‘Oh, by the way, Beth wants to know if you’d like to come round for lunch on Sunday.’

Stephen nodded. ‘Yeah, love to.’ He showed Robert to the door and watched him stride away along the country lane, looking bizarrely out of place in his shiny black shoes and dark grey suit.

Sunday dawned bright and clear. After a good morning’s work — he was on the home straight now, beginning to relax — Stephen set off to the farmhouse. He knew Justine was going to be there because she’d mentioned it, but he wasn’t sure if there were to be any other guests. It had crossed his mind that a family lunch, just the four of them — and Adam, too, of course — might be Beth’s way of acknowledging the relationship.

A tight-lipped Justine met him at the door. She’d seemed doubtful about the invitation when she first mentioned it, but evidently something had happened to disperse the doubt. She was now unequivocally livid. ‘You’d better wait in the conservatory,’ she told him rather ungraciously. ‘Beth’ll be along in a minute.’

She was wearing an apron over her dress, and he supposed that was what had made her angry — being forced into the dual role of guest and kitchen assistant. She bustled off. Looking at that rather broad and firm backside, he thought, God help the patients who don’t watch their cholesterol levels — she’ll give them hell.

Adam was in the conservatory, his freshly brushed hair sticking up in spikes, and, beside him, glass in hand, was Robert, chatting to a man in black with silver hair. When he turned round, he revealed an intelligent sheep’s face, the eyes at once keenly alert and innocent.

‘Alec, this is my brother, Stephen,’ Robert said. ‘Stephen, Alec Braithewaite.’

They shook hands.

‘Justine’s father,’ Robert added.

‘Yes,’ said Stephen.

‘Justine’s talked about you a lot,’ Alec said.

Stephen took the glass Robert held out to him, noticing that without being asked Robert had poured him an extra stiff whisky. Alec was on sherry. Stephen raised his glass, looking intently into Robert’s eyes, trying to relay the message, ‘If you think a double whisky’s going to get round me, you two-faced, treacherous, lying, conniving bastard, apology for a brother, you can think again.’

‘Oh?’ Stephen said.

‘She admires your work. Bit of hero-worship, I think.’

The doorbell rang. Robert was about to move off when ‘I’ll go!’ Justine called from the hall.

Feminine flutterings and flutings and cooings, though a bit one-sided — Justine seemed to be growling — and then Angela came into the room, looked at Alec, blushed, looked down and said in reply to Robert’s question that she might just have a glass of white wine. But only a small one, she was driving.

‘You can leave your car here,’ Alec said. ‘If Robert doesn’t mind. I can’t drink anyway. I’ve got Evensong.’

‘Oh, dear.’

Much to Stephen’s relief, Alec and Angela had eyes only for each other, and he was able to withdraw from the conversation and corner Robert. ‘He’s an intelligent man,’ Robert said blandly. ‘You’d like him.’

‘Is that why he’s here?’

Robert raised his eyebrows. ‘He’s here because he’s Beth’s vicar and our neighbour and we like him. Don’t be so bloody paranoid. Here, have another whisky.’ He looked round the room. ‘We don’t do this often enough. It’s bad for a marriage when you get too isolated.’

‘Is it?’

An awkward pause.

‘Well, isn’t it?’

‘I think the trouble comes first. The isolation’s just a symptom.’

‘All I know is, it’s bad for mine,’ Robert said, wincing.

‘You’re hardly an isolated couple . You’re never here.’

That wasn’t tactful, but Stephen couldn’t help himself.

‘I thought I might take Beth away for a few days. Try to sort things out.’

‘Oh, where are you going?’

‘Paris, I thought.’

‘Oh, very nice.’

‘Paris in the spring.’

‘Don’t spend all the time arguing about stem-cell research, will you?’

‘No-o, I thought we’d do the sort of things people normally do in Paris.’

‘Eat croissants in bed.’

‘That sort of thing. Bed, anyway.’

‘“Not tonight, Josef.”’

‘You’re a cruel bastard, Stephen.’

A wisp of cloud drifted across the sun. The shadows of the trees in the garden lay in a network all over the black-and-white tiled floor, gleaming and dancing.

‘The right time of year for it, anyway,’ Stephen said, feeling a stab of envy, not of Robert and Beth but of some ideal couple — himself and Nerys twenty years ago, perhaps. Not as they actually were, but as they ought to have been.