Hilary Mantel - Beyond Black

“If you get promoted,” Al said, “nobody will be happier than I will. The only bit of peace and quiet I had was when you were on your course.”

“Peace and quiet?” Morris yelped. “How could you have peace and quiet? Wiv a past like yours? Not ten years old, and a man’s testicles on your conscience.”

“What testicles?” Alison yelled.

Across the landing, Colette’s door opened. She stood in her bedtime T-shirt, very white and severe. “That’s it,” she said. “I don’t intend to spend another night under this roof. How can I live with a woman who has rows with people I can’t see, and who stands outside my bedroom door shouting ‘What testicles?’ It’s more than flesh and blood can stand.”

Alison rubbed her forehead. She felt dazed. “You’re right,” she said. “But don’t be hasty.”

“It’s simply not acceptable conduct. Not even by your standards.”

Alison moved her foot, so Morris could slide from under it. “At least wait until the morning.”

“I don’t believe it’s safe to wait until morning. I shall pack a small bag and I shall send someone for the rest of my things in due course.”

“Who?” Al said, in simple wonderment. “Who will you send?” She said, “You can’t just rush off into the night. That’s silly. You owe it to me to talk it over.”

“I owe you nothing. I built your business up from scratch. It was a blundering amateur mess when I came on board.”

“That’s what I mean. Come on, Colette! We’ve been through such a lot.”

“Well, from now on you’re on your own. You’ve got plenty of company, I would have thought. Your special sort of company.”

“I’ve got my memories.” Al said. “Yes. That’s fine.”

She turned away. I won’t entreat you anymore, she thought. She heard low voices from downstairs. It sounded as if Aitkenside and the rest had come in and were making themselves a snack. Colette closed her door. Al heard her talking. For a moment she stood still, in astonishment. Who has she got in there with her? Then she realized that Colette was using her cell phone, and was making arrangements to depart.

“Wha?” Gavin said. “Who’s this?” He spluttered, coughed, blew his nose twice; he sounded like a bear that has been hibernating at the bottom of a pit.

“It’s not that late,” she snapped. “Wake up, Gavin. Are you awake? Are you listening to me? This is an emergency. I want you to get me out of here.”

“Oh,” said Gavin, “it’s you, Colette. How’ve you been?”

“I’ve been better. I wouldn’t ask, except I need to get out right now, and I need somewhere to stay, just for tonight. I’m packing a bag as we speak.”

There was a silence. “So let me get this straight. You want me to come over there?”

“Yes. At once.”

“You want me to drive over there and get you?”

“We used to be married. Is it too much to ask?”

“Yes—no—it’s not that—” He broke off. To consult Zoë, perhaps? Now he was back on the line. “The problem’s my car, you see, it’s—well, it’s in the garage.”

“What a time to pick!” she snapped. “You should have a little Japanese one like ours, never lets us down.”

“So why don’t you, you know, get in it?”

“Because it’s hers! Because she’s the owner and I don’t want a dispute. Because I don’t want her near me, or anything that belonged to her.”

“You mean Fat Girl? Are you running away from her?”

“Look, I’ll call a cab. Only be ready to let me in when I get there. It may take a while.”

“Oh, I’ve got wheels,” Gavin said. “I can come. No problem. As long as you don’t mind it. I mean, it’s not my usual standard.”

“Gavin, come now, in whatever you happen to be driving.”

She clicked the phone off. She put her hand on her solar plexus, and tried to breathe deeply, calmly. She sat on the side of the bed. Vignettes from her life with Al ran through her mind. Alison at the Harte and Garter, the day they got together, arranging the sugar straws and pouring the milk. Alison in a hotel in Hemel Hempstead, trying on earrings at the dressing table, between each pair dabbing at her earlobes with cotton wool balls soaked in vodka from the minibar. Alison wrapped in a duvet, on the night the princess died, her teeth chattering on the sofa of the flat in Wexham. As she hauled down a bag from the top of the wardrobe and pushed into it a wash bag and some underwear, she began to rehearse her explanation to Gavin, to the world. A vagrant hanged himself in the shed. The air grew thick and my head ached. She stamped outside my room and shouted, “What testicles!” She snapped her bag shut, and lugged it downstairs. At once she thought, I can’t turn up like this, what about Zoë, she’ll probably be wearing designer lingerie, maybe a one-off a friend has made for her, something chiffon, something silk, I wouldn’t like her to see these sweatpants, she’ll laugh in my face. She ran upstairs, took off her clothes, and stood before her open wardrobe, wondering what she could find to impress a model. She glanced at her watch: how long would it take Gavin to get over from Whitton? The roads will be empty, she thought. She dressed; she was not pleased by the result; maybe if I do my makeup, she thought. She went into the bathroom; painstakingly she drew two eyes and a mouth. She went downstairs again. She found she was shivering, and thought she would like a hot drink. Her hand reached for the kitchen light switch, and drew back. We’re not supposed to be here; the neighbours think we left. She crossed the room and began to inch up the kitchen blind.

It was three-thirty, and already the short midsummer darkness was becoming a smoggy haze. Aluminium barriers had been erected around the Balmoral, and on them a line of magpies was bouncing, as if they were sharing a joke. Behind her, she heard a footstep on the vinyl floor. She almost screamed. Al crossed the kitchen, bulky in her voluminous cotton night-gown. She moved slowly, as if drugged, hypnotized. She slid open the cutlery drawer, and stood looking down into it, fingering the knives and forks.

This is the last of it, Colette thought. A phase of my life ends here; the hidden clink, clink of the metal from inside the drawer, the conversational sound of the birds, Alison’s absorbed face. Colette crossed the room and passed her without speaking. She had to push past; she felt as if Al’s white gown had swelled out to fill the room, and the substance of Al’s flesh had swollen with it. In the distance she heard the sound of a car. My chariot, she thought. Gavin may not be much of a man, but he’s there for me in a crisis. At least he’s alive. And there’s only one of him.

From the kitchen, Al heard the front door close behind Colette. The letter box opened, keys dropped to the carpet, the letter box flipped shut. That was a bit dramatic, Al thought, there was no need for her to do that.

She limped to a kitchen chair, and sat down. With some difficulty, she raised one calf and crossed her ankle over the opposite knee. She felt the drag and pull on the muscle beneath her thigh, and she had to hang on to her shin bone to stop her foot from sliding off and back to the floor. She bent her back, hunched forward. It was uncomfortable; her abdomen was compressed, her breath was squeezed. It’s a pity Cara’s not here, she thought, to do it for me, or at least to instruct me in the proper technique; she must have got her diploma by now. I’ll just have to rub away and hope for the best; I’ll have to go back by myself, back to Aldershot, back to the dog runs and the scrubby ground, back to the swampish waters of the womb, and maybe back before that: back to where there is no Alison, only a space where Alison will be.