I wanted to go out to meet her but the Mayflower delivery was on the way so I waited until it arrived, then I went out to the path along Eel Brook Common and she ran into my arms all breathless and shaking. ‘What is it?’ I said. ‘What happened?’
‘Troy,’ she said. ‘I went to Oddbins in Harwood Road, I thought he’d have been at work already but he was just passing as I came out. “Going to a party?” he said. He pulled me around the corner into Effie Road, past El Metro and into the common. Then, with no one to see him do it, he grabbed me by the hair but before he could swing me around I hit him with the Minervois. Knocked him out but I broke the bottle.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘Probably still flat on his face on the path.’
‘Is he badly hurt? Should we call an ambulance?’
‘I don’t see why. That’s an occupational hazard in his line of work — he’ll come round by himself or somebody will give him first or second aid, whatever.’
Now I began to see her in a new light as someone to whom violence came easily. If she’d hit Troy hard enough with that bottle to knock him out he might even be dead or at least concussed. In the movies people get sapped with gun butts and all kinds of hard objects and it does them no permanent harm but real life isn’t like that.
‘The way you’re looking at me you must’ve led a very sheltered life,’ she said, ‘and in the meantime the wine’s gone and the Chinese takeaway’ll be getting cold.’
‘Sorry, Barbara. I’ve got a bottle of red at home and the food’s only just been delivered — it’ll be all right. But are you all right?’ I’d have thought she’d be trembling after an encounter like that but she seemed perfectly calm.
‘I’m OK,’ she said. ‘I’ll be fine when we settle down with food and drink and a video at your place.’
‘I’ve got a great movie for you, The Cooler.’
‘What’s it about?’
‘Winning and losing, good luck and bad luck. Love. Mainly it’s a love story.’
‘Could we watch The Rainmaker again?’
‘Sure, Barb, anything you like.’ Jesus, I thought, that film really is a turn-on for her.
The food was still warm and the wine was so good that we finished it too quickly and carried on with beer. Barbara was squeezing my arm so hard she left bruises. ‘Let’s get on with it,’ she said to the screen when the legal action and courtroom scenes went on too long. ‘Bastard!’ she said when the husband yelled at Kelly and threw a bowlful of soup on her in the hospital. ‘You’ll get yours, you bloody wife-beater! Just wait!’ When Rudy and Kelly beat him to death she said, ‘Yes!’ and smothered me with kisses. ‘You ever wish you were six inches taller, Phil?’
‘Most of the time. Do you wish I were six inches taller?’
‘Actually, it’s not the size that matters, it’s what you do with it.’
‘What are we talking about, Babs?’
‘You, Phil, the total five foot seven of you.’
‘You’re going to make me very uncomfortable if you keep harping on about my shortness, Babsy.’
A very serious kiss this time. ‘But I can make you very comfortable too, can’t I?’
‘We’ll see about that,’ I said. ‘Are we going to the tango class tomorrow? Or is this tomorrow?’
‘The room’s going round,’ she said. ‘I’ll think about it after I throw up.’
‘This way, please,’ I said, and led her to the bathroom.
When Barbara had finished being sick she said, ‘Would you get my bag for me, please?’ When I gave it to her she took out a toothbrush. I tried to act unsurprised. When she’d cleaned her teeth and washed her face she said, ‘Give me a shirt.’
‘A shirt?’
‘In the movies the woman wakes up wearing a man’s shirt, so give me one and put me to bed.’
‘My pleasure,’ I said. I tucked her in and kissed her goodnight.
‘Aren’t you coming to bed?’ she said.
‘Not yet. I want to sit at my desk for a while and think about you in my shirt in my bed.’
‘You like to think about me?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s nice. I’ll think about you too.’ She fell asleep immediately. I went into the living room and walked around hugging myself for a while, then I went to my desk. I sat there thinking about Barbara, then I went to my computer and watched the cursor on the word processor flickering like a snake’s tongue. Mimi had said that Hope of a Tree was ‘a put-together thing trying to pass itself off as a novel’, and she was right. It was about a painter whose wife had committed suicide. For a long time after her death he couldn’t work but then he met a new woman etc. Why hadn’t I done better? And why did that come to mind now? I reached for the Bible in the stack by the desk and turned to Job 14:7–9:
For there is hope of a tree, if it be cut down,
that it will sprout again, and that the tender
branch thereof will not cease.
8 Though the root thereof wax old in the earth,
and the stock thereof die in the ground;
9 Yet through the scent of water it will bud,
and bring forth boughs like a plant.
I put a blank page up on the screen and thought about a title for what might or might not be my next novel. I closed my eyes and saw Barbara asleep in my bed. I opened my eyes and typed The Scent of Water. OK, the scent of water. What about it? I had determined not to use the current events of my life, I wanted to keep Barbara private and separate. So what was The Scent of Water going to be about? No idea. ‘Never mind,’ I said to myself. ‘You’ve got a title and that’s a start.’ Then I got ready for bed and climbed in beside Barbara. She was snoring so loudly that she sounded like a 747 passing very low over the house.
Between her snoring and the deliciousness of her solid warmth I was a long time falling asleep. I lay awake thinking about Troy Wallis and his violence to Barbara. Although actually he might now qualify as a battered husband. Indeed, he might be lying dead on the path by the common. I’d never seen him and the only visible evidence of his violence was the bruising on Barbara’s arms. Did he exist? Here I was falling in love with this woman and I wasn’t even sure whether or not she was lying to me.
Nothing but sleep happened that night, and when Barbara got up in the morning she groaned. All she had for breakfast was coffee, then she kissed me, said, ‘See you,’ and left.
‘When?’ I called after her.
‘Don’t know,’ with a shrug.
I went to my desk and accosted the word machine. It looked at me as if I were a stranger. ‘Don’t give me that,’ I said. ‘Without me you’re nothing.’
Big talk, it snapped back. What have you done for me lately?
I checked my e-mail for the second time, looked in on Ellen MacArthur’s website to see how she was doing in her solo circumnavigation of the globe, and worried with her about the high pressure area ahead. Then I suddenly couldn’t remember where my copy of the lives and times of archy & mehitabel was. Looked for it but no luck, so rather than lose the whole day in a fruitless search I ordered a used copy (the book was out of print) from AbeBooks. By then it was nearly lunchtime so I thought I might as well get some air.