“All,” said Zillah.
“You should have told me. Annie said it’s wrong to keep children in the dark. I thought she meant keep them in a dark bedroom but she said, No, she didn’t mean that, she meant it’s wrong to keep them in the Darkness of Ignorance.”
“It’s a willy,” said Jordan.
“No, it isn’t.”
“It is.”
“It isn’t.”
“It is, it is, it’s mine and it’s called a willy.” He began to cry and beat the water with his hands so that splashes went all over the room and Zillah. She dabbed about her with a towel. Every towel had to be washed by hand and dried on the line, as she didn’t need to remind herself.
“Do you have to provoke him, Eugenie? If he wants to call it a willy, why not let him?”
“Annie says it’s wrong to teach children baby words for Parts of the Anatomy.”
Zillah got them to bed. When she had finished reading Harry Potter to them-though Eugenie could read perfectly well herself and had been able to for two years-she thought as she kissed them goodnight that they might not see their father again. It seemed, suddenly, intolerably sad. If he intended never to see her again, he wouldn’t see them either. In Jordan’s rosy face on the pillow she could see Jerry’s nose, the curve of his upper lip, in Eugenie’s his dark blue eyes and strongly marked eyebrows. Neither of them was much like her. Last time Jerry had been at Willow Cottage, when he was sitting at breakfast that final morning, Jordan had taken their two hands, hers and Jerry’s, and laying his over hers on the table, said, “Don’t go, Daddy. Stay here with us.”
Eugenie hadn’t said a word, just looked at her father with cool, penetrating reproach. Zillah had hated Jerry then, even though she hadn’t wanted him to stay, hated him for not being a proper dad to his children. They could have a new one in Jims and everything a good father should provide.
Still, there was no getting away from the fact that she was married already. But Zillah knew it was hopeless to start thinking about divorce now. The children were involved, so it couldn’t just be done by post. There would have to be a court hearing and custody decided. Jims wouldn’t wait. He was notoriously impatient. He had to get married, or at least get himself engaged, before someone outed him and that might happen any day. If she hesitated he’d go after Kate Carew.
So if she married him, was she going to do it as a divorcee or a widow? If as a widow, wouldn’t Jims find it odd that she’d said nothing about Jerry dying in the train crash when it happened? It would have to be as a divorcee. Or, better still, as a single woman. Then she wouldn’t have to produce the decree absolute or whatever it was to show the registrar. Or the vicar. Jims might want to get married in church.
Zillah hadn’t given a thought to religion since she was twelve, but so do old beliefs and habits resonate faintly throughout life that she balked at marrying in church in a false character. Besides, she’d been married to Jerry in church and she knew enough about church weddings to know that the vicar would say something about declaring if you knew any impediment to the marriage. If Jerry being still alive wasn’t an impediment she didn’t know what would be. She was balked but not put off the idea. Now she’d thought of these stumbling blocks she found she really wanted to marry Jims. There was no doubt. She’d say yes on Thursday.
Dragging all those sopping wet and still dirty clothes out of the now cold water in the sink was one of the things that decided her. To get away from that. And the crack behind the outfall pipe from the lavatory where water (or worse) dripped, and the clothesline that fell into the mud when overloaded and the life-threatening electric wiring. And, when Annie didn’t offer her a lift, having to walk two miles to Fredington Episcopi where there was a small, ill-stocked village shop, and two miles back, laden with junk food in plastic carriers. She’d say yes.
But somehow she’d have to get over the question of what, on forms you filled in, they called your marital status. And it was for Jims as well as the registrar or vicar. He was no fool. Why shouldn’t she say she and Jerry had never actually been married at all?
Chapter 5
IN THE FRUIT and vegetable section of Waitrose at Swiss Cottage, Michelle Jarvey was choosing food for her husband. Matthew was with her, pushing the trolley, for it would have been difficult attempting to buy anything if he were absent. Besides, they did everything together. They always had. He’d try kiwi fruit, he was saying, now the Coxes were over. He couldn’t stomach any other sort of apple.
To the other shoppers Mr. and Mrs. Jarvey would have presented a sight almost comic. If to themselves they were a serious, and to some extent tragic, pair, Michelle knew quite well that the rest of the world saw them as a grossly fat, middle-aged woman and a man so thin, worn, wizened, and cadaverous as to resemble someone freed after five years in a prison camp on a starvation diet. Matthew was too weak to walk far, and when he pushed the trolley, which he insisted on doing, he was forced to double up as if in pain. Michelle’s monstrous bosom rested on a stomach which, with her hips, resembled in shape the lower part of a spinning top, undulating as she walked. Today she wore a tentlike green coat with a fake fur collar in which her still pretty face nestled as if it were peeping out from a mound of clothes bundled up for the charity shop. The huge body balanced on surprisingly good legs with ankles so slender that you wondered why they didn’t crack under the weight.
“I’ll just get two kiwis, then, shall I?” said Michelle. “You won’t want too much. You may not fancy them.”
“I don’t know, darling. I’ll try.” Matthew shuddered a little, not at the kiwi fruit, which were just like bits of a tree, really, or even two small furry animals, but at an overripe banana among the rest, a banana with a brown bruise and squashy tip. He turned his eyes away, remembering to keep them lowered. “I don’t think I want any strawberries today.”
“I know you don’t, darling, and no pears or peaches.”
Michelle didn’t say, Because they bruise easily, they decay fast. She knew that he knew that she knew. They moved on past milk and cream and cheese, she helping herself surreptitiously while he looked the other way. She dared not buy meat or fish; she’d go to the local corner supermarket for that on her own. Once he’d actually vomited. It was the only time they’d ventured together into the meat section and she’d never risk it again. Among the cakes and biscuits, she grabbed the things she knew she shouldn’t eat but had to. To distract herself, to distance herself, to console herself.
“Those,” he said, pointing.
He wouldn’t say “butter puffs.” “Butter” was among the words, along with “cheese” and “mayonnaise” and “cream,” he hadn’t uttered for years. He’d be sick. She took two packets of the dry, flaky biscuits. His face had become even paler than usual. In a surge of love for him she wondered just how much torment being in a food store brought him. He insisted on coming. It was one of the courage-testing tasks he set himself. One of the challenges. Looking at a magazine was another, turning the pages and forcing himself not to skip the ones with the color shots of soufflés and pasta and roast beef. Talking to people who didn’t know, watching them eat, watching her eat. They came to fruit juices. She took a carton of pineapple juice, looked at him, raising her eyebrows. He nodded, managed a death’s-head smile, all skull and teeth. She laid her hand on his arm.
“What would I do without you, my darling?” he said.
“You don’t have to do without me. I’m always here for you, you know that.”
There was no one near to hear them. “My sweetheart,” he said. “My love.”