Brian shouted back, ‘You can’t bully furniture, woman!’
Titania yelled, ‘It’s no wonder Eva’s mad and lives in a room with no furniture at all! You drove her to it!’
To her amazement, Brian wove through her possessions, took a couple of boxes off the chaise longue, lay down and started to sob.
She was bewildered by the drama of it all, and said, ‘I’m sorry, Brian, but I cannot live like this. I want to settle down in a house with proper designated rooms. Henry Thoreau may have been happy living in a shed, and three cheers and multiple gold stars for him, but I want to live in a house. I want to live in your house.’
She was pleading now. Their honeymoon period of living together in the sheds was long over. She was looking forward to being a seasoned and contented couple.
Brian whined, ‘You know we can’t live in my house. Eva wouldn’t like it.’
Titania felt a switch click inside her head. It was raging jealousy kicking in. ‘I’m sick of hearing about Eva and I hate the sheds! I can’t stand to live in them for a minute longer!’
Brian shouted, ‘Good, go home to Guy the fucking Gorilla!’
She screamed, ‘You know I can’t go home! Guy has rented it out to the Vietnamese cannabis farmers!’
She ran out of the shed complex, across the lawn and into the main house.
Brian had a fantasy that Titania would run through the middle of the house, out through the open front door, and then down the street and round the corner. She would carry on running: through back gardens, on to minor roads, on cart tracks, on a winding path up the hills, down the hills and far away.
Brian wished that Titania would vanish, just vanish.
61
Alexander carefully let himself out of his mother’s small terraced house in Jane Street. He did not want to wake her, she would ask him where he was going and he didn’t want to tell her.
He was nervous about leaving the kids in her sole care – she was too frail now to pick them up and, being an old-school disciplinarian, she was not sympathetic when Thomas screamed with the night terrors or Venus cried for her mother.
He crept along the pavement until he was out of earshot of the house, then he quickened his pace. He could tell from the cool night air and the faint smell of decay that autumn was waiting to take its place. The streets were quiet. Cars were sleeping next to the pavements.
He had three miles in which to rehearse what he was going to say to Eva about their relationship. Although perhaps he should first establish whether or not they had a relationship?
Back in the day, after Alexander had returned from Charterhouse with an alien upper-class accent that even his mother had laughed at, he had spent many hours in his room with an old-fashioned tape recorder, trying to minimise his vowels and slacken his jaw He kept well away from the local gangs, the Northanger Abbey Crew and the Mansfield Park Boyz. Alexander wondered if Miss Bennet would have liked Mr Darcy more, or less, had he strolled through the Pump Room with his arse hanging out of his baggy jeans, showing the label of his Calvin Klein underwear?
Now all Alexander could hear were his own footsteps echoing in the moonlit streets.
Then he heard a car approaching, its sound system booming out gangster rap. He turned to look as the old BMW passed him. Four white men, short hair, over-muscled. A tin of gym supplements on the back window. The car stopped just ahead of him.
He braced himself and, hoping to appear friendly, said, ‘Evening, guys.’
The driver of the car said to his front-seat passenger, ‘Do me a favour, Robbo, get the toolbox out the back, will you?’
Alexander didn’t like the sound of the toolbox. All he had to defend himself with was his Swiss Army knife, and by the time he’d found a suitable blade…
He said, Well, I’ll wish you goodnight then.’ Fear had forced him to drop his street accent, and revert back to Charterhouse.
The four men laughed, but without humour. At a gesture from the driver, the three remaining men got out of the car.
‘Lovely plaits,’ said the driver. ‘How long you had them then?’
‘Seventeen years,’ said Alexander. He was wondering if he could outrun them, though his legs had turned to mush.
‘Be a relief to get rid of ‘em won’t it? Nasty, dirty, filthy things hanging down your back.’
Suddenly, as if they’d rehearsed it, the three men pushed him to the ground. One sat on his chest, the other two held down his legs.
Alexander allowed his body to go limp. He knew from experience that any show of defiance now would bring a beating.
He let himself into Eva’s house with the key she had given him. He took his shoes off and carried them upstairs, together with his shorn dreadlocks.
When he got to the landing, Eva called, ‘Who’s there?’
He walked softly to her doorway, and said, ‘Its me.’
She said, ‘Can you put the light on?’
He said, ‘No, I want to lie down next to you in the dark. Like we did before.’
Eva looked up at the moon. ‘The man in the moon has had work done on his face.’
Alexander said, ‘Botox.’
She laughed, but he didn’t.
She turned to look at him, and saw that his dreadlocks were gone. ‘Why have you done that?’
He said, ‘I didn’t.’
She put her arms around him.
He was rigid with an old rage. He asked, ‘What’s the most important quality a person could have, something that would benefit us all? Even the bastards who cut off my hair.’
Eva stroked his hair while she thought about his question.
Eventually, she said, ‘Kindness. Or is that too simple?’
‘No, simple kindness, I’d vote for that.’
In the early hours, he allowed Eva to level his remaining locks.
When she was finished, he said, ‘Now I know how Samson felt. I’m not the same man, Eva.’
Alexander had been thinking for some time about what was important.
He said, We all of us – the fools, the geniuses, the beggars, the A-listers – we all need to be loved, and we all need to love. And if they’re the same person, halleluyah! And if you can live your life and avoid humiliation, you’re blessed. I didn’t manage to do that, people I didn’t even know humiliated me. My dreads were me. I could face anything with them. They were a visible symbol of my pride in our history. And, you know, my kids would hang on to them when they were babies. My wife was the only person I allowed to wash and retwist my dreads. But I would have let you. Whenever I thought about my old age, I pictured myself with white dreads, long white dreads. I’m on the beach, in Tobago. There’s a travel brochure sunset. You’re back at the hotel, washing sand and confetti out of your hair. Eva, please get out of bed, I need you.’
Out of all his seductive words – Tobago, beach, sunset, confetti – the only word Eva heard clearly was ‘need’.
She said, ‘I can’t be needed, Alex. I would let you down, so it’s better if I stay out of your life.’
Alexander was angry. What would you get out of bed for? The twins in danger? Your mother’s funeral? A fucking Chanel handbag?’
He didn’t wait around for her to see him cry. He knew her attitude to tears. He went downstairs and sat in the back garden until dawn.
When he left for the long walk home, Ruby was out early cleaning the front porch and doorstep with disinfectant and a soapy mop. When she saw Alexander, she gave a delighted little scream and said, ‘A new hairdo. It really, really suits you, Alexander.’
He said quietly, ‘It’s my late summer cut.
Ruby watched him walk down the road.
He had lost his easy movements. From the back he looked like a stooped, middle-aged man.