Ellen had always been the one who washed her daughter’s hair, and now she washed Diana’s too. Both girls had beautiful hair, and plenty of it: she hadn’t cut Geenie’s since the girl was four, and every year its cloud of blonde not only grew longer, but seemed to expand widthways, becoming thicker and fluffier. Diana was dark, like her father, and her hair slipped over her shoulders like a living thing, a muscled eel or a stretching cat, but she showed no sign, yet, of being aware of her own prettiness. She simply hooked the glossy eel behind one ear and carried on reading.
As a treat, Ellen was using her own shampoo for the girls, Rubenstein’s Ecstase, jasmine scented, ordered from London. Its golden bottle glinted on the window ledge. She hated lilies, roses, violets and any other scent that reminded her of her own mother, who, she reasoned, probably never once washed her own hair, let alone anyone else’s. Sandalwood, jasmine, bergamot, ylang-ylang – these were the perfumes worth wearing. Their muskiness was more honest, closer to the earth. She loved the smell of Crane’s fingers when he’d been helping Arthur to cut the rosemary or when he brought her a sprig of thyme, saying she should make Kitty put it in with the bird.
The girls bathed together. Their long legs jostled for space in the tub, and they pretended to fight over the soap. Today Ellen made them sit back to back for the hair washing – that way she could kneel on a towel and scrub from head to head without too much stretching. She was still tired after last night’s drinking, which had gone on till two in the morning (although she’d noticed that Crane himself had stopped at midnight), and knew that she should save any elasticity left in her body for Crane.
Scooping up a huge handful of blonde and black hair, she soaped both manes together, winding them in a kind of maypole until Geenie stopped giggling and protested at her scalp being pulled. ‘Ellen! Stop it!’
Ellen dropped the hair and reached for the jug in silence.
She found her hands running through the black streaks down Diana’s back for longer than was necessary, and became aware of her daughter’s big blue eyes on her.
‘It’s my turn now. And I’m getting cold.’
‘Diana’s not complaining.’
Geenie swivelled round and pressed her big toe into Diana’s thigh. ‘Diana never complains, Ellen, you’ve said so yourself.’
Diana smiled. ‘Don’t I?’
‘And don’t start complaining, Diana, that’s my advice. Men don’t like it.’ Ellen squeezed the moisture from the girl’s hair, and then thought to add, ‘And neither do other women.’
‘I think she should complain more. I think it’s unnatural not to complain.’
Ellen filled the jug with clean water from the tap.
‘Who told you that? Put your head back.’
She poured water over her daughter’s hair, digging her fingers into her scalp, chasing out the suds, until Geenie cried out again.
‘Don’t make a fuss.’
‘George says that complaining can change things.’
‘George says a lot of silly things.’
‘Can I get out?’ asked Diana, standing up suddenly and dripping water onto Ellen’s shoulders. Unlike Geenie, whose hips had recently begun to fan out, Diana was thin as a stripling.
‘There’s a towel over there,’ said Ellen.
Whilst Diana stood with the towel held up to her nose, Ellen filled the jug again. ‘Head back, Flossy.’
She began to pour, but as she did so, Geenie went limp and slid herself into the bath until she was fully submerged in the water.
Ellen put the jug down and sat back on her heels. It was just a matter of waiting. She knew Geenie couldn’t hold her breath for long. Behind her, Diana sighed, then came to kneel by the tub. Together they watched Geenie as she lay beneath the water. Ellen noticed the small swellings around the girl’s nipples, magnified by the bathwater, but – she looked down – no real pubic hair yet. Her amphibian daughter. Any chance she got, she went under.
. . . .
‘Why aren’t you writing?’
Ellen had had a drink – just one, just a gin and it – and wandered outside into the warm evening. Only half an hour until supper. Soon she’d be preparing it herself, of course, something light and fresh and French; but for now, Kitty was perspiring over another roasted piece of pig.
She hovered in the doorway of Crane’s studio, smiling. She knew she shouldn’t be here when he was trying to work. Crane never disturbed her when she was typing, although she often wished he would. If only he would ask about the letters, just once; then she might let it all come out. But he hadn’t shown the slightest interest in what she did in the library.
He did have the most charming taste, despite the messiness of his studio. On his desk was a beautiful red porcelain vase with orange dots painted up one side; it reminded Ellen of a woman’s thigh, it was so rounded and yet so long and elegant, with a fluted, open neck. Beside it were the usual piles of poetry books, newspapers, dirty cups and sheaves of paper. James had always said that what Crane needed was a good editor, rather than a willing publisher. Someone to take a scalpel to all that self-indulgence. James could’ve done it himself, of course, if he’d have thought it worth his while. Not that she’d encouraged him, she remembered now. Something had made her want to limit any contact the two men had, and she’d always been rather glad when James had dismissed Crane in that icy way of his.
‘You’re not writing?’
Without looking at her, Crane stretched back in his chair and sighed. ‘Reading.’
He said it as if it were just as good.
‘Reading what?’
She was through the door now, putting her hands on the desk beside him.
Crane rose from his chair. ‘Marx.’
‘Of course.’
When he was this close, she could smell him. At first she’d loved the smell, that warm, leathery scent; but now that the hot weather seemed set in, his sweat was beginning to turn a little sharp. She’d have to say something soon.
‘Do you object?’ he asked.
‘I never object to reading, you know that. But sometimes there are better things to do.’
‘Like what, Ellen?’
‘Like… writing.’
He moved closer to her. She closed her eyes.
‘Crane,’ she said, ‘you’ve never kissed me here —’
Reaching past her, he ripped the sheet of paper from his typewriter. He paused to plant a light kiss on her cheek, then he folded the paper and put it in his pocket.
‘What was that?’
‘Writing,’ he said. ‘Or as close to writing as I’ve got today.’
‘Is it your novel?’
He dropped into his armchair. ‘I don’t have a novel, Ellen.’
‘Yes you do. You told me. You’re writing a novel. It’s inspired by the Sussex Downs.’
He’d said to her, when they first came here: ‘You make me want to write stories again.’ He’d said that. And she’d imagined herself in the pages of his book: the exciting foreign vamp, raising the English gent from his metaphorical grave. Am I the woman in your book? she’d ask, knowingly. How could she not appear in his book, after all she’d given him?
‘What was the point in coming here, in giving up your job at the publishing house, if you’re not writing?’ She gave him a few moments, leaning on his desk and staring down at him, waiting for his reply.
Eventually, he dropped his eyes and said in a quiet voice, ‘It was for you.’
She wished she had a cigarette, so she could exhale scornfully, like Laura.
‘I gave it up for you,’ he continued, swallowing. ‘Had you forgotten?’
She tried to remember. True, she’d been the first to suggest that he didn’t have to go to work. A gentleman shouldn’t have to hold down a day job. Messing about in the offices of a publishing house wasn’t what he should be doing with his life. Besides, London was such a long way away, and it was where Lillian was, with her kick-pleat skirts and her neat nose.
‘I’ve bought you something,’ she said.
She hadn’t, but it was good to change the subject. She’d been thinking about buying him another typewriter, a newer one – it didn’t feel right that hers was a more modern model than his – but she hadn’t quite got around to it yet.
‘I wish you’d stop.’ His voice was still quiet, but steady.
‘Stop what?’
‘Buying things. For me.’
‘Don’t you like things?’
‘Well. I—’
‘You used to like things. New books. Pens. That cashmere coat. You liked them.’
‘Of course I liked them, I loved them. It’s just…’
She’d bought him a silk tie, that was the first thing; he’d looked pleased but had never worn it. Bottles of whisky didn’t go down well, either. And there was the MG, of course; she’d had to nag him to take it out of the drive the other day. Blotto had been the best present, probably the only one he’d really liked: they’d bought him from a breeder in Midhurst, and in the car on the way home the dog had panted so heavily that Crane insisted they stop to give him a drink from a puddle. He was ten weeks old, small enough to fit in Crane’s jacket, which was where he’d hidden for hours when they were back at the cottage. Finally they’d prised him out, and he’d trembled in the corner of the kitchen until Crane scooped him up and took him to the studio. Now the dog slept beneath Crane’s desk every night.
‘Look. I don’t want to fight,’ he said, his mouth working in a way she recognised: he was trying to make himself smile. It was how he always avoided a row. Side-stepping her just when she was working up to it.
He rubbed at his chin. ‘Isn’t it almost time for supper?’
‘Another piece of pig.’ She pulled a face.
He grinned a little then, his lopsided eyes creasing. ‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘Nothing. It’s going to change soon, though.’ She hadn’t meant to tell him, but he would push her to these things. These declarations. Sometimes they were the only way to get a real reaction from him.
‘Things are going to change.’ She spoke rapidly. ‘I’m going to be cooking. And looking after the girls. I need something to do out here, don’t I?’ She felt the blood rising to her face. ‘You’re keen on the importance of work, and workers, darling, aren’t you? Earning your place in the world and all that. I’m going to earn mine.’
He leant forward in his chair and opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off.
‘It’s going to be wonderful, George. I’m going to be a domesticated woman. Can you imagine? Kitty’s going to help me.’
She should have had another gin and it before she started this, but it was too late to stop now.
‘That sounds – ah – intriguing—’
‘All I need is another baby, and then I will be quite the little housewife.’
Now he was staring at her, his mouth open.
‘Don’t worry, darling. It won’t hurt. Well. It won’t hurt you, anyway.’
‘Ellen.’ His voice had lowered. It was the tone she’d heard him use when Diana said something out of place. ‘Are you – ah. Are you serious?’
She knelt by the side of his armchair and looked up at him. She waited for a while, hoping he would meet her gaze. But his eyes seemed fixed on his own knees. So she said, ‘Yes, I am,’ and took his hand in hers. It was a knobbly hand and a skinny wrist. But his skin was smooth. In her experience, most English gentlemen had skin like this: boyish, pale, easily marked. ‘Don’t you want us to have a child, George?’ she asked, softly.
He gripped her fingers. ‘Well – I suppose we’ve always said, haven’t we, that we came here to be a family together…’
‘That’s what we said.’
‘The thing is, though, I am still married to Lillian, officially, and—’
Ellen jumped up. ‘What difference does that make? You live here with me. We’re already a family, you and Diana, me and Geenie…’
He closed his eyes. He seemed to be counting breaths.
She really should have had another gin. She pushed her hair away from her forehead and held it for a few moments, pressing down on her own scalp while she tried not to shout. ‘It’s just – I want to be – you know, proper for you.’
‘You are proper, Ellen.’ He caught her fingers and brought them to his lips. ‘You’ve always been that.’
She knelt by him again. It was a great effort, but she managed to keep her voice steady. ‘You’ll think about it, darling?’
With his eyes closed, he nodded, and, after a moment, he took her head in his hands and kissed her so hard it was all she could do not to flinch.