‘On either side the river lie,’ quoted Carl May, from Tennyson,
‘Long fields of clover and of rye –’
‘Barley,’ said Bethany, and Carl May chose to ignore her. Once.
‘That clothe the wold
And meet the sky
And through the fields
The road runs by
To many-towered Camelot.’
‘That’s where my ex-wife lives,’ said Carl May, ‘in Camelot.’
‘I thought she lived at the King’s House, Maidenhead,’ said Bethany. They lay in bed together. The sheets were white. There were blankets, not a quilt. How quaint, had thought Bethany once, how like him, how pure, but now she thought, how old-fashioned, how uncomfortable, how like death. He ignored her. Twice.
‘And up and down
The people go
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below
The island of Shalott –’
‘Shallots, onions,’ said Bethany.
Thrice.
‘Four grey walls
And four grey towers
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle embowers
The Lady of Shalott.’
‘Yes, I know,’ said Bethany, ‘ “She left the web, she left the loom, she made three paces through the room” – we did it for diction – “the mirror cracked from side to side, the curse is come upon me, cried the Lady of Shalott.” Then she mooned about for a bit and topped herself from sheer boredom. Which reminds me that the curse has not come upon me. What are we to do, Carl?’
Carl was silent.
‘I know you said you had a vasectomy, Carl, but it can’t have worked because I’m pregnant and I’ve been with no one but you, Carl.’
Still Carl was silent.
‘There, I’ve said it,’ she said. ‘I’d been getting really nervous.’
Carl sat up in bed, looked down at her bare breasts, her smooth narrow arms, her blue eyes – she took out her contact lenses at night – and rested his hand upon her throat. Then he moved it down over her body, on the whole quite gently, though tweaking her nipples rather sharply, to which she was not averse.
‘You be careful,’ said Carl, ‘or you’ll end up like Squirrel Nutkin,’ but she didn’t understand the reference. Nor did she have time to puzzle it out, as the whole of Carl May advanced upon her.
‘You were only joking about being pregnant, I suppose,’ he said, presently, disentangling his legs from hers reluctantly, but he felt the first twinge of cramp, to which he was prone.
‘Of course,’ said Bethany. ‘Twice in one night. Wow! What a man!’ She was tired. She used the language of porno films. She did not have the energy for finesse. He did not seem to notice. There was no real reason for her to be tired. She thought it might well be the effect of boredom.
‘I had a man killed today,’ said Carl, pleased with himself. ‘Perhaps that’s it.’
Bethany blinked, but was careful not to let her body tauten against Carl’s. She no longer felt tired. Then she thought, well, one pregnancy joke deserves a murder joke. A death for a life. Silly old you.
‘He didn’t suffer,’ said Carl.
‘If you’re going to kill a man,’ said Bethany, ‘why bother if he suffers or not?’
‘One does bother,’ he said. ‘For some reason. I don’t wish to inflict pain, or terror. Some lives simply need to stop. Have you ever had a termination, my dear?’
‘Once.’
‘Well, there you are. You understand.’
Bethany put on her contact lenses and turned her eyes green, and fluffed out her red hair, and pranced about the room. It could do no harm.
‘Who was Squirrel Nutkin?’ she asked.
‘Squirrel Nutkin danced about in front of a wise old owl,’ he said from the bed, ‘taunting him and teasing him, asking riddles and telling jokes.’
‘What sort of riddles?’
‘Riddle me, riddle me, riddle me, ree,
How many strawberries swim in the sea?
I answered him as I thought good,
As many red herrings as grow in the wood,’
said Carl May, ‘for example.’
‘What happened?’
‘Nothing happened.’
‘Then what was the point?’
‘Nothing happened and nothing happened.’
‘Then what?’
‘Something happened. The old owl pounced and ate Squirrel Nutkin up and there was peace in the wood again.’
‘Oh,’ said Bethany, and put on her clothes rather quickly. Sometimes he did give her the creeps. But presently her spirits were restored, for she was indeed young and she found herself singing her favourite song:
‘For a young man he is young
And an old man he is grey,
And a young man’s back is good and strong,
Get away, old man, get away.’
‘I haven’t finished yet,’ said Carl May. ‘Indeed I have only just started,’ so she had to get back into bed again, but that was not really what he was talking about.