Cushing's Crusade (9 page)

Angela shrugged her shoulders. ‘I thought men were supposed to be able to solve that sort of problem.’

‘And I thought independent women didn’t make remarks like
that, but we can but try.’ He got up and hurriedly clambered into his trousers.

‘If it’s all too much trouble, don’t bother,’ she replied.

‘I said we’d try.’

So they set about making a fire. Angela had some matches and they used her cigarette packet to provide the initial flame to ignite the dead heather, dry bracken and other kindling which Derek collected from the edge of the woods. The principal fuel was driftwood. After a fair amount of experimenting they managed to balance the can over the fire using two piles of stones and two thick planks of damp wood. Their hope was that the water would boil before these wooden supports burned through.

In the bright sunshine the flames were hardly visible but appearances were deceptive for the fire was a good one and the water heated up fast. As it started to boil, the prawns changed from brownish-green to pink as though a powerful dye had
suddenly
been put in the water.

‘What was so hard about that?’ asked Angela with a smile.

As she spoke one of the supports gave way and Derek had to give the can a hefty shove with a stick to save the prawns from the flames. The can and its contents spilled out onto the beach but well clear of the fire. Having cooled the cooked prawns in the sea, they stripped them and then started to eat.

‘I’ve never tasted better,’ Derek admitted and Angela didn’t argue. They ate seven and a half prawns each: the entire catch. Ahead of them the tide was slowly advancing up the beach
making
slight noises like a wet sheet brushing the shingle. The water sparkled, caught by the sun where the slight breeze ruffled the surface: like reflections in fragmented glass. To their left a low reef of black rocks jutted into the sea. The bonfire was dying down. Once again Derek could think of nothing to say. He prodded the fire with a stick sending a shower of sparks into the air. Angela was looking at him with undisguised curiosity.

‘Why were you so nasty yesterday?’ she asked pleasantly.

‘Why should I tell you?’

‘That’s a child’s evasion.’

‘It was a child’s question. One thing led to another as things
tend to do.’ He tossed a stone down the beach into the sea. ‘Your friend would have said that I was temporarily overcome by the fragmentation, alienation and despair endemic in a decadent bourgeois culture.’

She lay back on the beach and shut her eyes. A long silence.

‘I’m afraid I’m not much good at instant honesty,’ said Derek.

‘You should give it a try; it’s not much harder than cooking prawns.’ She sat up and grinned at him. ‘Would you mind if I take off my shirt?’ she asked suddenly. Derek had noticed she was wearing no bra.

‘I’ve got to be honest?’ She didn’t answer. ‘It’s much harder than cooking prawns but I’ll try.’ He paused for a moment. It wasn’t nervousness precisely but his heart was beating faster and his mouth felt dry. ‘I do mind and I don’t, or part of me does and part of me doesn’t. I like looking at strange breasts … strange in the sense of new rather than deformed or grotesque, if you get my meaning; or to be strictly honest I
think
I like looking at strange breasts. You see it’s some time since I’ve had the chance, although there was a time when I did and enjoyed it thoroughly. I don’t find nudity boring like some people do, or say they do, because working in a library I’m not in daily contact so to speak —we don’t have a collection of erotica, you see—so I wouldn’t mind from that point of view. But looking has other effects and although I like to think that … no, the other effects don’t need explaining. Elderly men in strip clubs often hold newspapers on their knees, or laps I should say. Then I suppose somebody, my son, for example, might come upon us as I looked at them and might draw conclusions that were incorrect; might assume that we were not merely being honest with each other but were being intimate or about to be intimate. Other considerations too. If you take your shirt off I will want to look at your breasts but won’t want to be seen looking at them because that would make it appear that I’m so tit-orientated that I can’t behave naturally in the face of something natural. You might want to talk to me about racial integration or a voluntary wage restraint policy and I might want to extend my hand and this might get in the way of a useful discussion of topical … I’m afraid I find decisions rather hard to
make so I usually let other people make them for me.’ He smiled apologetically. ‘If you want to take your shirt off you ought to.’

‘I don’t think so,’ she replied quietly.

Derek was surprised at the extent of his disappointment. He had been certain that she would take it off whatever he said; have made the decision for him and then have asked him to be honest about his feelings. Being a blonde, her nipples would have been as pleasantly pink as the prawns they had just eaten and the skin around them pebble smooth and very white in the sun. The black rocks, the white skin, the blue sea and that single touch of pink … those two touches of pink. As a child he had played doctors and patients with several little girls. Hadn’t there been a similar atmosphere? Playing at doctors or playing at honesty could have similar results. Is the pain there? he remembered asking,
prodding
a plump little stomach. Fluttering eyelids, a slight blush and the patient would say: It’s lower down, doctor. There? You ought to have a proper examination. I feel better … No, Derek. I’m still the doctor. Anger and alarm. You’re not the doctor, you’re Derek and take your hand away at once. Perhaps he had
completely
misread Angela’s mood; invested the occasion with an ambiguity it didn’t possess.

‘Are we still being honest?’ he asked.

‘If you want to be.’

‘I
would
like you to take off your shirt. I wasn’t being
intentionally
dishonest before.’

Angela took off one of her shoes and tipped some stones out of it. Then she shook her head slowly.

‘You weren’t being dishonest before, intentionally or
unintentionally
. You want me to take off my shirt because I decided not to. You’re more interested in influencing me than in seeing my tits.’

‘My desire to influence you goes no further than the removal of your shirt.’

Angela threw back her head and laughed until she was weak with laughing. At last she said, ‘That’s what all the boys say … the words are sometimes slightly different.’

‘Haven’t you broken the rules?’ asked Derek.

‘Sod the rules.’ She winked at him. ‘If I show you, promise you won’t tell?’

‘I think I can be honest about that.’

‘Just a short look, mind. Don’t go making a meal out of them.’

‘I’m a little old for that.’

She was laughing again as she undid her shirt so they shook up and down. Derek started laughing too.

‘It’s the air down here; does something for a girl.’ She paused. ‘What do you think?’

‘The air?’

‘
Them,
you fool. John liked bigger nipples. I used to tell him it had something to do with babies.’

‘I think they’re very nice.’

She looked down modestly.

‘They’re quite convenient; not too large or anything like that. No lumps yet.’

‘Like pink prawns,’ he said.

‘You’re bloody twisted.’

‘I meant the colour of your nipples.’

‘I suppose they are.’ She looked at him with sudden concern. ‘You look sad. All that laughter and now you look sad. Why?’

‘Still honest?’ he asked.

‘Of course,’ she replied.

‘Your brother is fucking my wife in a wood.’ He smiled for a moment but felt tears pricking beneath his lids. ‘It sounds like the first line of a bawdy poem but I’m afraid it’s true.’

She had kissed him before he quite realized what had
happened
; not that he remembered it as rushed afterwards: the reverse in fact, for the kiss seemed to last for some seconds after she had moved away.

‘Silly her,’ she whispered.

‘I wasn’t appealing for compensation; a sort of
quid
pro
quo.
’

‘I’m not a fool,’ she said with sudden anger.

‘I’m sorry.’

She buttoned her shirt and stood up.

‘We were strangers all the time,’ he said.

‘Come on,’ she replied. ‘Lunch, and we can’t keep Mrs
Hocking
waiting. We’re not strangers. We’re you and me, and I can’t think of what to say because moods come and go like the fire we lit burned and went out.’

As they walked up the beach towards the wood she took his hand and he was sure she had made the gesture because she felt sorry for him and he cursed himself for destroying a morning he had enjoyed in spite of so much. As they walked through the wood he forgot her hand and remembered Diana. What did you do this morning, Derek? Flirted on a beach. I suppose she flirted back; as soon as one man goes she’s ready for another. Like with her husband….

*

Lunch was uneventful, although Derek could see that Angela was watching Charles and Diana with more attention than hitherto. Giles had found an underwater cave and wanted an aqua-lung so that he could explore it properly.

‘You will be careful, won’t you, darling?’ said Diana.

‘I can hold my breath for ninety seconds so I know how long I can go down for. I count under water.’

‘It still sounds dangerous. Your eyes look rather bloodshot too.’

Although she was being critical and concerned, Derek knew that she felt guilty for not being with her son; guilty because she knew that she would let him go back to his cave and not even sit on the beach watching him diving.

Later Charles suggested that they went fishing in the bay
during
the afternoon.

‘I’ve got a motorboat; not a speedboat, I’m afraid. We should be able to catch a few mackerel.’

‘Just my luck to be going to Truro,’ said Derek. ‘My father’s train, you see.’ He caught Angela’s eye and looked away. ‘You’ll be going, won’t you?’ he asked Giles.

‘I haven’t been asked,’ the boy replied quietly.

‘Of course you’re coming,’ came back Charles heartily.

‘In case you’re thinking of asking me, don’t bother,’ said Angela.

‘You have more interesting plans, I suppose?’ Charles returned.

‘There are several things I want to buy in Truro. That’s if Derek will take me.’

‘Could I get them for you? Save you the journey?’ asked Derek.

‘I’ll have to choose one or two things myself, but thanks for offering.’

Derek and Angela had to leave before the end of the meal. As they went out Diana was laughing at an amusing anecdote about a picture framer who had gone mad.

*

They drove in silence along the enclosed lanes and through the woods which led down to the head of the river. The height of the hedges and the dense canopy of trees which often blotted out the sky made Derek feel claustrophobic. He had wanted time to think before being alone with Angela again. Outside in the fields or down by the sea they could have walked and looked around and silence would not have been oppressive but in the car it weighed on Derek heavily. The sun beat down on the car and sweat started to trickle down his back sticking his shirt to the plastic seat. By contrast she seemed relaxed and cool. Nearly thirty, perhaps? Twenty-six or seven anyway, but she looked a lot younger. That slight gap between her front teeth and the lack of make-up probably accounted for it. It was a long time since he had studied a female face carefully. He liked the way little brackets formed round the edges of her mouth when she smiled and the way her cornflower-coloured eyes narrowed. Her slightly turned-up nose gave her an almost insolent look, which he had once thought sullen but now found amusing. She didn’t comb her hair much but in her man’s shirt and rough jeans it gave her a pleasantly windswept appearance. Not beautiful, perhaps, her cheekbones were a little too broad, but not far off it. And him? An ill-assorted couple, the two of them. From the front his hair wasn’t too bad, but it was very thin at the back and another year or two and it would be worse. Until his late twenties he had never worn glasses unless he had to, for films, plays, driving a car; now
he wore them all the time and had done for years. He wasn’t fat and although Diana thought his legs too short for his body, it wasn’t a criticism that previous girl friends had made. Two years before at the Institute a young American postgraduate had seemed interested for a few months, had offered to help him tidy up and take manuscript boxes down to the archives, but nothing had happened; there had been no furtive embraces behind the stacks of missionary correspondence, no impropriety in the archives. A perfect place which he had never thought of using. Come and see my manuscripts were words which had remained unspoken through the years.

‘You didn’t want me to come, did you?’ she asked as they passed the reeds and mudflats at the head of the river.

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Come on. You wouldn’t have offered to save me the trouble of coming by buying what I wanted for me.’ She gave a sniff of mock grief and added, ‘Now would you?’

‘Do you suppose,’ asked Derek, pointing at a distant bird
sitting
on one of the blackened ribs of a rotting boat, ‘that we are looking at a lesser-spotted grebe or a crested peewit?

‘My supposition is that you’re changing the subject and being facetious.’

Derek felt suddenly irritated. Why should he tell her what he thought? Honesty was an amusing game for a time but making a habit of it was a different matter. Fine for her to amuse herself by cross-examining him when she was so utterly uninvolved. Up to now Derek had not taken against Angela because she was Charles’s sister. Suddenly he felt irritated by this relationship.

‘You wanted to come so that you could ask me more about Charles and Diana. Mind you, I don’t altogether blame you; it can’t be everyday that one comes across a husband who takes his holidays with his wife and her lover; and after all, you must have thought, with the vision of your delightful boobs still burning in my brain, that I would tell all without any further asking, in the hope of having another visual treat.’