‘Listen to this, darling. It says here that crocodiles make deep grunting sounds during courtship. And they mate in a threshing frenzy.’ He waved the book at her excitedly. ‘ “The flanks may vibrate so violently that water is sprayed high into the air from either side.” That should be worth a try!’
Catherine laughed. ‘I thought you were writing a crocodile poem?’
‘I was – till I got distracted by this book.’
‘And you just told me not to disturb your concentration.’
‘Grunts don’t count. Apparently they mate in shallow water and …’
‘The bath’s got your dirty washing in it.’
‘We can imagine the shallow water. “Copulation lasts approximately ten minutes.” ’ He frowned. ‘I don’t think much of that, do you? Hang on – this sounds better. “Courtship starts with the two partners rubbing their muzzles against each other.” ’ He got down on the floor and crawled on his belly towards her, making a succession of throaty grunts.
‘Will, you’re crazy!’
‘Ssh. I’m a randy crocodile, stalking my mate.’
She grunted playfully in reply. ‘But crocodiles don’t wear clothes, you know.’
‘Right, take them off and show me that luscious scaly skin of yours.’
She pulled her sundress over her head – in the sultry summer heat she had dispensed with any other clothes. It took Will longer to undress, but she helped him unbutton his shirt and unzip his trousers. Naked, they both lay on their stomachs on the carpet, rubbing muzzles – chins.
‘Then the male mounts the female,’ Will whispered, manoeuvring himself into position.
‘Hey, Will, slow down a bit!’
‘We’ve only got ten minutes.’
‘No, you can be the exception that proves the rule – a considerate crocodile who takes time to please his mate.’
‘Okay.’ He grunted and snuffled comically, making little forays towards her, only to retreat again. But all at once there was an uproar outside: a siren wailed, a car screeched to a halt.
‘Oh, no,’ she groaned. ‘Not another raid.’
‘Ignore it.’ Will kissed her on the mouth.
She returned the kiss half-heartedly, but then wriggled out from under him. Love-making (crocodile-style or any other fashion) wasn’t easy with that din. The windows were wide open and the familiar noises seemed amplified in the heat: slamming doors, pounding feet, interspersed by shouts and scuffles and the crack of splintering wood. ‘I’m sorry, Will, I just can’t function with all that drama going on. It’s worse than The Bill!’
‘For heaven’s sake ignore it,’ he repeated.
Angrily, she sat up. ‘Stop ordering me about, Will. First you tell me not to speak because the Great Poet is at work, and now …’
Will sprang to his feet. ‘What do you mean, “the Great Poet”?’
‘Don’t be silly, it was only a joke.’
‘I don’t find that sort of sarcasm funny in the slightest. What’s wrong with you today?’
‘I’m tired, if you must know.’ She snatched her dress from the floor and yanked it back over her head. ‘This is the first Friday we’ve taken off in weeks, and I thought we were supposed to spend the day in the park, soaking up the sun. Instead of which I’ve been stuck indoors, slaving since the crack of dawn.’
‘I’ve been working too, haven’t I?’
‘You’ve been writing poems.’
‘And I suppose that isn’t work?’
‘Look, writing’s something you want to do. I’ve been cooking and cleaning all day and I’m sick of it.’
‘You don’t have to cook and clean.’
‘Someone’s got to do it, and anyway you keep complaining you’re hungry.’
‘There’s always take aways.’
‘They’re expensive, Will. You know how tight money is.’
‘Okay, bread and cheese then.’
‘But you don’t buy bread and cheese. On the rare occasions you do the shopping, you get things we can’t afford.’
‘Oh, I see you’re really having a go at me – I hardly ever do the shopping, and when I do, I’m wasteful. I sit around on my arse all day. I order you about …’
‘Will, you’re overreacting.’
‘And I overreact.’
She lowered her voice, ashamed to realize they were both shouting. ‘Yes, you do. And it gets incredibly wearing.’
He sank on to the bed without another word. He looked so utterly dejected, she felt a surge of remorse. It wasn’t all his fault – certainly not the lean time they were having at the market. Trade was bad in general at the moment. And he was right – she did choose to cook, and often gloried in his extravagant praise for her meals. She went over and put her hand on his shoulder. ‘Let’s not quarrel, darling.’
‘No, I’m sorry.’ He drew her down beside him on the bed and kissed her eyelids softly.
‘D’you think crocodiles have rows?’ she whispered.
‘God, I hope not. They’d probably tear each other limb from limb.’
She gave a shudder and pressed closer. ‘Listen, my randy crocodile, let’s start again – okay? The noise has stopped.’ As far as it ever did stop. The police car had left as mysteriously as it had come, but there was still the incessant roar of traffic and a workman in the street was using an electric drill.
Will was sitting with his head bowed. His erection had dwindled to nothing and she knew he was still haunted by past failures – not with her, with his previous girlfriend. She tried to stroke him stiff, without success.
‘It’s no good,’ he said irritably. ‘I’ve lost it now.’
‘It doesn’t matter, darling.’
‘It does. I can’t bear letting you down.’ He thumped his fist on the bed. ‘We should have moved north. I hate this bloody racket all the time. At least we’d have had some peace and quiet in the country.’
‘Oh Will, don’t start that again. You know how awful I feel about it. But I keep telling you, I didn’t have much option.’
‘Of course you did. You just let your family bully you.’
‘I did not, Will. It was my choice. I didn’t want to be so far away from my grandchild.’
‘You could always visit. Cumbria’s not exactly another planet.’
‘Have you any idea what the petrol would cost? Even if I only drove down every couple of months, we still couldn’t afford it. Anyway, we’d need a better car. Mine’s on its last legs, in spite of all we spend on it I mean, another eighty pounds last week for a camshaft belt, and the new battery the week before.’
‘It gets frightfully boring, you know, the way you keep banging on about money.’
She flounced up from the bed. ‘You’ve got a nerve, I must say. Your car’s still off the road and you happily use mine. Okay, I don’t mind, but you could at least put some petrol in it occasionally.’
‘I pay for other things, don’t I?’
‘Yes – extravagant things we don’t need.’
‘God, I’ve never known you be so bitter, Catherine. Why not ring your darling son and say you will move into his bijou cottage after all.’
Stung, she stood gripping the windowsill, looking down at the street. Black dustbin bags were clustered against the graffiti-daubed brick wall. Several windows were smashed; two shops boarded up. Perhaps she should have accepted Andrew’s offer and escaped from this depressing squalor. ‘I gave the cottage up for you,’ she said tersely, keeping her back to him.
‘You did not. You gave it up because you didn’t want to be a full-time grandma.’
He was right. She had tried to take a stand with Andrew and Antonia, not to let things happen by default, as had been the case so often in the past. Whatever decision she arrived at, though, she was bound to upset someone. In the end she had compromised, declining the role of full-time nanny, yet also refusing to go north with Will, thereby upsetting everyone. She had tried to make it up to Will by suggesting they look for a new flat together – not, alas, in Cumbria, but in a more attractive part of London. They were still looking. The whole point of moving north was that property was cheaper. Nothing was cheap in London, not even Tandoori Street.
She glanced over her shoulder at Will. He was putting his clothes back on, his movements brusque and angry. ‘I think I’ll go out,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to spend all evening quarrelling.’
‘Nor do I. I love you, Catherine, can’t you see? That’s why it hurts when you always put your family first.’
‘But Will, I put us first.’
‘Oh, really? That’s news to me. We’re surrounded by your family.’ He glanced in annoyance at her collection of photos from Gosforth Road. ‘Even Gerry, for God’s sake. How do you think I feel waking up to your brilliant actor-husband every day?’
‘Will, he’s dead,’ she said softly.
‘Okay, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned it. But it’s not only him, it’s the others. You just don’t seem able to cut the umbilical cord. And certainly Andrew can’t. Shit!’ His shoelace had snapped and he flung the broken lace across the room. ‘It’s becoming pretty clear to me that your wimp of a son can’t manage without his Mummy. So perhaps you’d better go back there and let him bloody keep you in the style you’re accustomed to.’
She grabbed her bag and marched to the door. She wouldn’t stand for him attacking Andrew, or swearing.
‘Oh, running out on me, are you?’
There was a note of panic in his voice, but she had no intention of crawling back. She was tired of his insecurities and the petulance he’d shown since their country idyll had foundered. Okay, it was her fault, but she couldn’t grovel for ever.
She hurtled down the stairs and into the street; kept running in case he tried to follow. But as she turned into Kentish Town Road, her steps faltered to a stop. Walking out was a fine dramatic gesture, but where did she actually go? Restaurants, theatres, cinemas all cost money. It was already quarter to eight, so no point searching out friends in the market – they’d have shut up shop two hours ago. Some of them, including Brad, would be drinking in the Stag, but the relationship between her and Brad had become rather awkward recently, after an unpleasant scene with Will. That was another thing – Will was so possessive. Just because Brad made her jewellery it didn’t mean they were having an affair.
She walked aimlessly along, envious of the couples strolling arm in arm and the cheerful groups of people spilling out of the pubs on to the pavement, chattering and laughing as they downed their pints of beer. It was a perfect summer’s evening, less hot than earlier, but still sunny with a cloudless sky – weather for romance, not rancour. And the fact that it was Friday made it worse. London seemed to pity you if you were alone on fun night, party night.
While she waited at a crossroads for the traffic lights to change, she noticed the sign pointing to Kentish Town sports centre. Rosie’s son went swimming there on Fridays – a children’s life-saving class which finished at 7.30. With any luck they’d still be around. Rosie was just the person to talk to. Working at the market together they’d become firm friends; snatching a coffee when customers permitted, and sometimes meeting afterwards for a natter and a drink. Rosie was a good listener and invariably sympathetic when it came to problems with men. In fact, they’d been chatting only yesterday about the unfair sex in general and Will in particular.
Quickening her pace, she reached the sports centre in a matter of minutes, relieved to see that there was still a swarm of parents and children outside. It should be easy enough to spot Stephen – his ginger hair was a beacon in any crowd – but there was no sign of him or Rosie. She went inside and checked the foyer: more kids, more milling parents – but not, unfortunately, the pair she was looking for.
Stephen was rather a slowcoach, so perhaps he was still getting dressed. She’d give them a while longer. Better to hang around here than wander the streets on her own. Ten minutes passed. Fifteen. More people were flocking in for the water aerobics session advertised on the board – energetic types with impressive-looking kitbags slung across their shoulders, who made her feel sluggish and superfluous. She leaned against the wall, watching a blond boy of about Sam’s age getting a drink from the machine. The last day Sam had spent with them had not been a success. He was bitterly disappointed that the promised country cottage, complete with his longed-for cat, had failed to materialize after all. The ensuing sulks and tears had only increased her guilt, though guilt had turned to resentment when Will left her to look after him practically all day, insisting that if inspiration struck, any poet worth the name must catch it on the wing, regardless of such considerations as visiting sons or resident women. Well – she shrugged – at least she wasn’t a full-time single parent, like Rosie.
She mooched out to the street again. Rosie and Stephen must have left ages ago and were probably sitting down to supper by now. Of course, she could call in and see them – it was only a short bus-ride away – but Rosie’s mother was often there and would want to talk about her ailments. She dithered for a moment, then set off for the Lock, in the hope of meeting someone else she knew. A bit of lively company would stop her brooding on the Thursby cottage. Apart from being a lost opportunity, it meant they had lost the three-hundred-pound deposit and the month’s rent paid in advance. No wonder they were skint. And she wasn’t even sure that she had made the right decision. If only she and Will could afford a place in Kent or Sussex, somewhere within easy reach of Stoneleigh, yet still in the country … But properties cost a fortune in that well-heeled commuter belt.
She kicked out at a beer can on the pavement, suddenly furious with Gerry. If he hadn’t been so feckless, she would be sixty thousand pounds better off. She had prided herself on accepting the loss – working in the market, you came to regard a lack of security as a simple fact of life – but tonight’s row about money had reopened the wound. How dare he chuck sixty grand away on some precarious fringe theatre, and deceive her into the bargain?
Angrily she strode into Chalk Farm Road and crossed the road to the Lock. The market manager, Frank, was standing by the bridge – just the person she didn’t want to see. They had crossed swords last week because she and Will had fallen behind with the rent. Frank had been quite stroppy about it, despite the fact it was the first time it had happened.
Preoccupied with avoiding him, she nearly bumped into Roy, strolling along in his familiar sequinned cap and floral leggings.
‘Hi, Plum. How’re you doin’?’
‘Oh, hi. I’m … fine.’
Roy ran a food stall in West Yard, selling veggie burgers, Celestial Tea and home-made carrot cake. ‘Fancy a drink?’ he asked. ‘I’m just going over the road.’
She glanced wistfully across at the pub. Will could hardly be jealous of Roy, who was unashamedly gay, but it would be hypocritical to spend money on drinks after nagging Will about extravagance. ‘I’m sorry, Roy, but I can’t just now.’
‘Ta-ra then, sweetheart. You look great, by the way. I like the tan!’
‘Thanks.’ She felt a little better, even without the drink. People here were so friendly and accepting. It was a sort of family, whose members helped and supported each other. And after all, if Gerry had left her comfortably off she would still be cloistered in suburbia, ignorant of this way of life, or even disapproving of it. Anyway, there was no point digging up the past – what was done was done.
Her way was blocked by a novice juggler practising on the pavement – all fingers and thumbs and fumbled catches – and she couldn’t help but smile. His chest was bare, and emblazoned with a lurid tattoo of an eagle with a sun in its beak. His feet were also bare, and dirty, and his hair was a minor masterpiece in electric blue and green. A crowd of tourists stood watching him – giggly Japanese girls; overweight Americans armed with camcorders. She squeezed past, only to find more people laughing at a wild-eyed preacher, who was urging his audience to accept the Lord into their hearts while refreshing himself from a gin bottle. The whole place seemed alive; gangs of rumbustious kids on their way to gigs or clubs; seasoned locals watching the world go by; a boy in baggy harem-pants busking with a guitar.
Her feet moved in time to the music as she crossed the cobblestones to the stalls, reduced now to gaunt scaffolding frames. Only in the last few weeks had business slackened off, despite the hordes of tourists. Before that, she and Will had been doing remarkably well, though you never knew with the market whether you were in for a bonanza or a slump. But if things failed to improve, well, perhaps it was time to look for another line of work. The market crowd were infinitely adaptable, working to live, not living to work, and always willing to move on. Bina was in Brighton selling tie dyed tee-shirts, Colin had landed a job on a canal boat and Spiff was working as a barman down the road. And considering the fact that she and Will had come up with dozens of ideas for earning a living in a tiny place like Thursby, surely they could do the same in a city of seven million people.
She walked back to Camden High Street, only realizing after she’d passed the tube that she was heading in the direction of Gosforth Road. Force of habit, no doubt. Although actually it might be fun to call in – catch up with Darren’s news, renew her brief acquaintance with Fiona. She began walking faster, her spirits rising as she reached number ten and found the door ajar. At least somebody was in.
‘Hi!’ she called. ‘Anyone around?’
It was Jo who came to the door, not bothering to smile. ‘Come in,’ she said grudgingly.
‘Are you sure I’m not disturbing you?’ Catherine hovered on the step. ‘I really came to see how Darren was. Has he accepted that new job at Saatchis?’
‘Yeah,’ said Jo. ‘But he’s out.’
‘Oh, I see. Well … do say congratulations, won’t you?’ She was about to back away – it was clear she wasn’t wanted – when Fiona appeared in the hall.
‘I thought it was you, Catherine. I’ve been meaning to ring you for ages. I still owe you money for the vet.’
‘Oh, that’s okay. You paid most of it.’
‘No, I haven’t and I feel terribly guilty. Look, if you’ve got a minute, why don’t we sort it out now?’
Catherine stepped into the hall, ignoring Jo’s frown. She liked Fiona, the little she had seen of her, and she just couldn’t leave without saying hello to William. He was sitting at the bottom of the stairs and she went over to make a fuss of him, fondling his ears the way he’d always enjoyed. But he just stared blankly with passionless green eyes, as if she were a stranger. His indifference was extraordinary, not to mention hurtful. Could a cat forget you in less than three weeks, when for months you’d been the most important person in his life?
‘Oh, dear, I’m interrupting your supper,’ she said, trailing after Jo and Fiona into the kitchen. The table was laid with knives and forks.
‘It’s only a snack,’ Fiona grinned. ‘And why not join us? It’ll probably stretch to three.’
‘No, honestly, I’ve eaten, thanks.’ Not true. But the brown congealing substance in the saucepan (chilli? curry? lentils?) looked as if it would barely stretch to two. ‘And don’t let it get cold.’
‘It’s cold already,’ Jo muttered. ‘I turned it off half an hour ago, but the bloody phone keeps ringing.’
‘Never mind. We can heat it up again.’ Fiona turned on the gas. ‘And in the meantime I’ll sort things out with Catherine. Give me a moment and I’ll see if I can find the bills.’
She disappeared upstairs, while Jo sat at the table, hacking slices off a loaf of bread. The silence felt uncomfortable. Catherine perched on the edge of a chair, remembering cosy suppers with Nicky: giggling, chatting, exchanging confidences. Although she would never admit it to Will, she did miss the old regime at times. ‘Have you heard from Nicky?’ she asked, to be polite.
‘Yes, Darren had a card. She’s having a whale of a time by the sounds of it.’
Catherine smiled. ‘I know. I had a letter last week. Seven pages. All about coral reefs and steel bands and snorkelling and what-have-you.’
‘Isn’t she doing any work?’
‘I suppose she must be, but heaven knows when!’
‘Fuck,’ Jo muttered, as the phone rang. She picked it up. ‘It’s for you, Fiona,’ she yelled. Two seconds later the doorbell rang as well. She grouched off to answer it, Catherine straining to hear the voices in the hall. Perhaps it would be somebody she knew.
But two unfamiliar girls walked in, evidently good friends of Jo’s since she promptly got them drinks from the fridge and produced packets of crisps and nuts.
‘Judith and Helen,’ she said, indicating the newcomers with a cursory nod and offering no further information. ‘This is Catherine. She used to live here.’
‘Used to’ was the operative word, Catherine thought. Now she didn’t merit so much as a salted peanut. She exchanged a few brief pleasantries with the girls, wishing Fiona would hurry up. But she was still on the phone in the sitting-room. And as for William, he was curled up on the windowsill with a supercilious expression, ignoring her completely.
Jo and her friends were soon deep in discussion about some hated female editor at Elite, until they were interrupted by pounding feet on the stairs. A man burst into the kitchen. Well, more a boy – he looked barely out of his teens.
‘Finished!’ he said, waving a sheaf of typed papers aloft. ‘Thank God. Now I can get absolutely rat-arsed.’
‘Here’s something to be going on with,’ Jo grinned, passing him a six-pack. ‘This is Pete,’ she said to Catherine, her offhand tone returning.
Catherine recognized the name. Pete was the friend of Darren’s who had taken over Nicky’s room. A week after his arrival, Fiona had decided to come back, which was fine so long as she went north with Will. But when she subsequently changed her plans, there was no place for her at Gosforth Road. No place in any sense, she thought, looking at the four heads round the table.
The average age in the house now couldn’t be much more than twenty-three. And judging by the present talk (the relative merits of various types of Ecstasy and how they compared with speed), she was completely out of it She felt more at ease with Fiona – and they could at least talk cats – but the phone call seemed no nearer a conclusion. Her voice could be heard in sporadic bursts from the other room, punctuated by occasional yelps of laughter.
Having waited vainly for a gap in the conversation, Catherine finally stood up. ‘I don’t want to be rude,’ she said, ‘but I’m afraid I must get off. I’m in a bit of a rush. Jo, could you tell Fiona not to worry about the vet thing? We can sort it out later on the phone.’
‘Yeah, sure.’ Jo was plainly relieved to see the back of her. And no wonder. Why should they want some boring middle-aged woman hanging round all evening? This chapter in her life was over – even her beloved cat seemed to regard her as an intruder.
She trudged back the way she’d come. It was still light still sunny, the velvet air warm on her bare arms. Today was the last day of June; the evening long and languorous, as if defying the sun to set. Even the dreary, treeless street looked glittering and gilded beneath an unwaveringly blue sky.
She straightened her shoulders and took a few deep breaths, the beauty of the evening acting like a tranquillizer. There was nothing to be gained by being negative and self-pitying. Gosforth Road had been fun while it lasted, but she had never intended staying permanently. After all, Will had called her a ‘work in progress’, which meant there were bound to be changes and revisions. And Will did have many good points – he was a brilliant poet, a fantastic lover. She would go back and make her peace with him, and perhaps they could resume their crocodile roles; not tear each other limb from limb, but rub muzzles in the bath.
She found a note on the table, scribbled on a dirty scrap of paper and propped against a beer can. Vanessa rang – last straw. Going out to drown my sorrows. Back by midnight. Maybe.
She kicked her shoes off with a clatter. She had refused Roy’s offer of a drink, yet Will had gone out boozing without a second thought. And his continual rows with Vanessa were beginning to wear her down. Now that she’d actually met her, it was impossible to see her as the villainous ex-wife. A little cold, perhaps, but basically a decent person.
She re-read the note stonily. No ‘darling’, no ‘love, Will’; just a bald statement and that rude and taunting ‘maybe’. She sank into a chair, tired after so much traipsing about. Not only that – she was tired emotionally. Giving up the Thursby cottage had cost her sleepless nights, especially as she was the one who’d done most of the spadework in finding it. And now she was lumbered again with the job of looking for a new London flat. Will left it all to her – he had important poems to write.
She crumpled up the note and closed her eyes, trying to make her mind a blank. Too much had happened in too short a space of time – Andrew’s bombshell about the baby; Nicky’s departure to the Virgin Islands; her own move from Gosforth Road. Was it any wonder she felt exhausted? And moving in with Will had needed a lot of adjustment on both sides. She missed her independence; a room of her own where she could retreat undisturbed, not answerable to anyone. And Andrew’s attitude hadn’t helped. When she’d finally plucked up the courage to tell him about Will, he had listened in shocked silence, like a Victorian paterfamilias reacting to the news of his daughter’s elopement with a ne’er-do-well. Another man was bad enough; a divorced and impecunious poet even worse.
That was another thing – the poetry. Will insisted it came first. Of course, if the Scrivener Press wanted more poems before deciding whether to publish, he had little option but to sit down and produce them. But it meant she was landed with a greater burden of work, both in the flat and at the market.
Her fingers were tapping impatiently on the chair-arm. She ought to take advantage of Will’s absence and have an early night, but she knew she wouldn’t sleep. His ‘maybe’ still rankled. Damned cheek!
Suddenly decisive, she put her shoes back on and marched downstairs, giving the door a satisfying slam. If Will had gone out drinking, so would she. Brad was often in the Stag till closing time on Fridays and even if he had left, no matter – she would go on to the Hawley Arms and find Roy; spin the evening out, be back by midnight.
Maybe.