I did not even bother with the pretence of betting. Once Tilda was out of sight I sat down and said, ‘Second thoughts, I might hold off on a punt until later.’
Donna wagged her glass to ask me to fill it. ‘This is bliss,’ she said. ‘I haven’t let my hair down for I don’t know how long.’
‘Feel free to do it today.’
‘I have to drive. I’d better watch my intake.’
‘Oh, you’ll be fine.’
‘I’m out of practice with drinking.’
‘No wild parties?’
‘Hardly.’
‘No romantic dinners?’
‘Hardly.’
‘No fellow on the scene? I’d have thought there’d be men queuing up at your door.’
‘I wish,’ she blurted. The tiny sentence surprised her as much as me: the hearty frankness; the hinted crudity. She quickly revised it. ‘I wish it was that simple, I mean. Oh, never mind.’
‘Go on. Don’t stop.’
She stood, one hand visored over her eyes for a view of how lovely the horses looked in the mounting yard. From our distance they appeared to be all one colour—shiny bay with a silver feather of perspiration in their flank.
‘You were saying?’
‘Forget it.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s awkward to explain.’
‘Why?’
‘Just think on it for a second.’
‘Think on what?’ I was still excited by that initial frankness-crudity moment. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to be explicit with me.’ Using explicit in this context sounded frank and crude as well.
Donna got re-seated, snuggled between two ridges of willow feet. She spoke to her glass, not to me directly. ‘I am a mother. I am a mother and a widowed mother at that. A man, well, it is expected that a man will keep company—let’s call it that: company. A man will keep company. He will seek it out, even. I’ve heard of men whose wives die and they’re off seeing people, off in the sack with people, a few weeks later. It’s not considered improper in their case. It’s considered nature. But a woman, a mother, we have to be proper. Or feel we have to be proper. I do, anyway.’
I did not believe any of this was for my sake. It was innocent drink-talk. Or perhaps there’s no such thing as innocent. A lump of breathlessness rose in my throat. I gulped on wine to treat it. That’s what lust is—breathlessness. Then the old sweet poison. Then, worst of all, love deranges you in the whole confusion of the process. It does in my case. I was still a way off being at the deranged state. About twenty-four hours. That’s how fast the deranging gets a hold. There was the following clumsiness to get through first. ‘So let me get this straight. You want—company?’
‘God yes. Of course. Who doesn’t?’
The champers refluxed into my sinuses. I fought back a sneeze. ‘I’m astonished nobody has made a move on you.’ I sneezed.
‘Bless you, for the sneeze and for saying that. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with me, is there?’
‘No. Jesus. No. You are very—desirable.’
‘Thank you. Very kind of you.’
‘It’s true.’
‘I wonder, is it me having Ruth?’
‘Ruth seems a nice kid.’
‘Is it that men feel a bit put-off because, you know, my husband died and that makes me sort of jinxed or something? Is it that they’re overly respectful of my widowhood? Such an ugly word, widow.’
I managed to get out, ‘Who can say?’ through the breathlessness.
‘I have one friend, Ian, a neighbour. He wasn’t at my barbecue—he was sick. He gets colds and flu and any bug going round. Which is one of the problems. He’s single, he’s available, but he’s a wreck. And he’s not handsome. He’s actually quite unattractive. I look at his mouth and I think: Do I want to kiss that mouth? No, I don’t want to kiss his mouth. If you don’t want to kiss their mouth, then it’s very—clinical.’
Whoever this Ian was, I loathed him for being in consideration for kissing from her.
Donna sat up straight. She said eagerly, girlishly, ‘At university, in my psychology class, there’s this boy. He’d be eighteen, nineteen. To me that’s a boy. Him I could kiss. He’s so incredibly beautiful. He’s dazzling. Him I could really kiss and keep very nice company with. But what am I supposed to do? Ask him out? I just can’t pluck up the courage.’
‘Don’t do it.’ I spoke so forcefully it made Donna flinch. ‘We’re all beautiful in our youth. It’s nothing unusual.’
‘No, he is very beautiful.’
‘He’ll soon go to seed. And besides, where does a relationship with a nineteen-year-old take you?’
‘That’s true. I’ve wondered the very same thing. It takes you nowhere. But it does give you physical gratification.’
I scratched at the dirt around me. What I wanted to do was scratch this boy’s image from her mind. Scratch him out and put me there and ask, Would you care to kiss me? Is my mouth worthy?
What I did do was say, ‘I’m attracted to you, Donna. I know I shouldn’t confess it, but there, it’s said. I’m very attracted to you.’
No reply. Not a rejecting motion of the hand; not a willing welcome of her eye. She was too busy taking in my indiscretion. Finally she uttered, ‘Oh. Oh.’
The whole scene was spread out over twenty minutes. One minute at least just for Donna’s two Ohs. She too found dirt to scratch in. I considered letting my finger scratch closer her way but was glad I didn’t, not in the open like that, with Tilda surely only a minute off. Less than a minute. There she was skipping between car rows; Ruth at the end of her arm, jumping and stumbling in horse mimicry, smacking herself like a whip.
I stood up and patted my trousers clean of grass dust. Guilt and worry were so cold on my face my blood must have fled heartward to hide. Tilda would tell I’d done something just by my colour. I thumbed my wallet for cash to look busy. I timed walking off like a purposeful betting man just as Tilda called delightedly, ‘Your daughter has worn me out, Donna.’
I used horse rails and tree trunks to touch wood that Donna would not tell on me. The count went into the hundreds. She didn’t tell. She went quiet instead.
As we packed up the picnic I wanted to whisper, ‘Donna, thank you for keeping mum.’ But there was no chance. Tilda was too near. She said later, ‘Wonder why Donna went so moody?’
Chapter 68
Next morning I fed coins into the Hastings Road public phone. I had to speak to her immediately. I could not wait until lunch and the empty office. I certainly could not take the risk from home—my excitement was not that stupid.
I did not feel dirty making the call. The handset was dirty from public fingers, stinky from cigarette breath, ice cream was smeared on the glass, but I did not feel dirty in myself. I was embarked on the higher purpose of Donna, or so the deranging had it. Whatever wrong I was about to do felt wondrous.
The ringing kept on so long that Donna’s whereabouts concerned me. If she was at university, was she talking to that boy? Was she wetting her lips and imagining kissing his? If the phone rang out I had a powerful impulse to drive to her, find her class and interrupt the lecture. This was no time for manners or niceties. The phone clicked.
‘Hello, Donna speaking.’
‘Hello. It’s Colin. I felt I better call.’
‘I’m glad you did. I wanted to try you at your work but held off and off.’
I had no speech composed. ‘I thought I…I just wanted to say if I said anything yesterday that offended you…’ I left the sentence incomplete, for her finishing.