Jessie Burton - The Muse

‘Set up home here, then?’

‘Yes, sir. Nearly six years now.’

‘Odelle’s father was in the RAF,’ said Lawrie. I could hear the desperation in his voice, and it annoyed me. I knew what Lawrie was trying to do, of course — repackaging me in a context the man might understand. But I did not feel I needed my father’s military record as any introduction; I felt, in a strange way, that Gerry was accepting me regardless. By some weird alchemy — perhaps because I was inside his house — Gerry seemed to exempt me from the unconscious hierarchy of colour he also inadvertently revealed now and then. Perhaps he was whitewashing my skin? Perhaps he rather liked the thrill, his colonial days coming back to him? Or perhaps he just liked me. Whatever it was, I felt invited in.

We ate a jumpy dinner — well, Lawrie was the jumpy one; Gerry and I fumbled our way through. At least he didn’t mention calypsos again — or bongos, or the miracle of my excellent English.

‘We went to the Caribbean once,’ Gerry said, as Lawrie cleared the plates. He drained his tumbler of whisky, and stared at it.

‘Did you like it?’ I asked.

Gerry didn’t appear to hear me. ‘Worked in India after I left Oxford.’ I looked at Lawrie’s expression: thunderbolts at the tablecloth. ‘Was there for years. I think the travel bug was in my blood from then on — probably got bitten by something. Beautiful place, India. Difficult though. Incredibly hot.’

‘Which islands did you go to, in the Caribbean?’ I asked.

‘Feels like a lifetime ago now. I suppose it is.’

‘Odelle asked you a question,’ said Lawrie.

‘It’s all right,’ I said.

‘Jamaica,’ the man replied, with a sharp look at his step-son. ‘I’m not senile, Lawrence. I heard her.’

‘I’ve not been to Jamaica,’ I said.

Gerry laughed. ‘How extraordinary. I thought you all just hopped between the islands?’

‘No, sir. I have been to Tobago, and Grenada, and Barbados. I do not know the other islands. I know London better than I know Jamaica.’

Gerry reached for the whisky. ‘It wasn’t my choice to go there,’ he said. ‘But Sarah said everyone went to Jamaica. She loved heat, needed it. So off we went. I’m glad we did. The sand was so soft.’

Lawrie snatched the whisky bottle. ‘Let’s go and listen to that record we bought,’ he said.

‘Who’s Sarah?’ I asked.

Gerry looked at me through bloodshot eyes. ‘Lawrence didn’t even tell you her name?’

‘Whose name?’

‘His mother,’ Gerry said, sighing when Lawrie turned away. ‘My beautiful wife.’

Lawrie lunged up the stairs, three at a time.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ I said. ‘He just misses her. He wants to talk about her.’

Lawrie stopped on the landing and whirled round at me. ‘Don’t think he’s some sort of saint,’ he said.

‘I don’t, Lawrie.’

Lawrie seemed to be battling with a particular thought. He looked half fearful, half furious. ‘When my dad died,’ I went on, trying to sound soothing, ‘my mum used to hear his voice in the radio. Saw his face in every man she met. You’ve got to be patient.’

‘She was my mother.’

‘Of course.’

‘I was the one who found her. In that room down there.’

‘Oh, Lawrie.’

I turned to the darkness where he was pointing, and felt a preternatural repulsion, an overwhelming desire to walk in the opposite direction. But I didn’t move; I didn’t want him to see me scared. ‘Gerry’s held together with whisky and sticking plasters,’ I said. ‘You should be kind to him.’

‘And what about me?’

‘I’ll be kind to you,’ I replied, taking his hand.

We lay side by side on Lawrie’s eiderdown, hearing Gerry shuffling beneath us, until a door closed and the house fell silent. ‘You shouldn’t live here,’ I said.

‘I know.’ He turned on his side to face me, propping himself on his elbow. ‘But it’s all I have. This place, Gerry and a painting.’

‘And me,’ I said. ‘You’ve got me.’

Gently, he ran his hand down the side of my face. The window was still open, and I heard a blackbird, so musical and effortless, singing in a tree like it was dawn. ‘Come on, Writer. What’s your favourite word?’ he asked.

I could see he wanted to change the subject, so I obliged. ‘You’re asking me to pick? All right. Lodgings .’

He laughed. ‘You had it ready — I knew you would. That’s so stodgy, Odelle.’

‘Is not. It’s cosy. “ My lodgings were clean and comfortable .” You?’

‘ Cloud .’

‘Such a cliché,’ I said, inching towards him and giving him a squeeze.

We talked on — for now, mothers and step-fathers and paintings forgotten, or pushed away at least, banishing them to the outer edges of our memories as much as we could. We talked about how beautiful the English language could be, in the right hands — how varied and nuanced and illogical. Hamper and hamper , and words like turn , that seemed boring at first but were deceptive in their depths. We discussed our favourite onomatopoeia: frizz and sludge and glide and bumblebee . I’d never been so happy alone with another person.

Because of the blackbird singing in the tree, we ended up drifting into a game of bird-tennis, our intertwined hands the raised-up net, and a kiss for each bird that we exchanged. Plover to lapwing, honey-creep, lark. Coquette and falcon, manakin, hawk . His hands upon my skin, curlew, oriole , and mine upon his. Jacamar, wren . Then the birds flew away, their names turned to kisses, a silence to spell a new world.

*

The next morning, I woke very early. Lawrie was in a deep sleep, his expression peaceful. I considered the astonishing moment he’d pushed inside me, how that was never going to happen for the first time again. I put on my knickers, his shirt and woolly jumper, slid out of the bed and tiptoed along the corridor to the bathroom. Had Gerry known I’d stayed? How mortifying it would be to cross him now.

I went to the toilet and felt between my legs; a little dried blood, but the more obvious symptom was the stomach pain I could feel, slight, low-seated, a dull ache, a sense of having been opened up and bruised. I had never even been naked with a man, had never been touched like that before; it was strange that one might feel pain over something that had been so pleasurable.

We had broken through a frontier, and I had told him, very quietly, that I loved him, and Lawrie had pressed his ear to my mouth, saying, You might have to repeat that one, Odelle, because I’m getting on and these days I don’t hear so well . And so I said it again, slightly louder, and he kissed me in return.

I looked at my wristwatch; five-thirty. Below me, I could hear Gerry’s snores. What a place to be, I thought; urinating in a clapped-out Victorian toilet in deepest Surrey over a man called Gerry’s head. I would not have predicted it; and I was glad of the lack of forewarning. Had I known such things were going to be promised me, I would have been too intimidated by their weirdness and they probably wouldn’t have happened.

I finished, washed my hands and face and used a little soap on my upper thighs. I felt the sudden desire to tell Pamela that this had happened, to give her the gift of my gossip, to make her birthday present worth it after all.

I came out of the bathroom and was about to head back to Lawrie’s room, when I hesitated. I turned to my right, looking down the long corridor. There would be no other time, I knew; with Lawrie awake it was unlikely he would lead an expedition down here. And for me, the curiosity was too great.