The Reading Group Part 8

I swooned the first time I saw Charlo. I actually did. I didn't faint or fall on the floor but my legs went rubbery on me and I giggled. I suddenly knew that I had lungs because they were empty and collapsing.

'This new novel is Roddy Doyle's best to date. I cannot recall any writer who has better captured the vulnerability and courage of a woman trapped in a loveless marriage.' Cork Examiner 'Ring 'em up, and cancel.'

'I will not.'

'Why not?'

'For starters, I like them. I look forward to my reading group. I enjoy it.'

'More than you enjoy this?' He nudged her again with his hips.

Not more than this, no, Polly acknowledged. This was pretty good. Daniel was out: it was Thursday so he was at football training and he'd yelled something back over his shoulder at her this morning about going to Ben's afterwards. She didn't know where Cressida was: she was so scratchy, Polly hadn't dared ask what her plans were. Jack and Susan had both told her she needed to be patient, give her s.p.a.ce. Anyway, she didn't have the energy for more arguments.

She'd come home from work to an empty, slightly lonely house, no lights on, no Radio One blaring. Ten minutes later Jack had been at the front door, with a bottle of red, and ten minutes after that they were naked in her bed, two navy suits with white s.h.i.+rts lying together on the floor, instantly forgotten along with office concerns.

'We're more like a pair of desperate teenagers than a respectable middle-aged couple, grabbing time alone together around your two's busy schedules,' Jack had said, in mock-complaint.

Polly, laughing, hit him. 'I am not middle-aged.'

He held her to him, flattening her b.r.e.a.s.t.s against him, then grabbed the duvet and pulled it up to their shoulders. 'You feel pretty good, for an old bird.'

She rubbed her cheek against his chest affectionately. She loved lying like that. 'You too, for an old git.' They were quiet, languorous, for a minute. 'Besides, you like doing it in the afternoon.'

He chuckled. 'I can't deny it. It feels kind of naughty.'

It felt kind of wonderful, lying there with him. Peaceful. The evenings were getting lighter, and warmer. She hadn't closed her bedroom curtains, and the sky was a wonderful colour. She felt loved and desired and, she realised, looked after. She hadn't felt that way for a long time before Jack: she had almost made herself believe she didn't need to.

'Come on, get up. They'll be here in a bit. Danny and Cress might be even sooner.'

Jack stirred reluctantly, kissed the top of her head, and slapped her bottom playfully. 'I've every right to be here, enjoying my fiancee.'

'Not on a reading-group night you haven't. What are you going to do with yourself tonight?'

With affected melancholy, Jack began to dress. 'Go back to my empty house, eat a TV dinner, I suppose. I'm taking my wine home with me, incidentally. I don't know, a guy comes round with a bottle of wine, gets stripped off, used, abused and thrown out again before he's even had a gla.s.s.'

She rubbed his head as she pa.s.sed him at the foot of the bed. 'You'll live.'

They talked while they got dressed. s.e.x with Jack was b.l.o.o.d.y fantastic, but chatting while you got dressed, not minding if you looked a bit ungainly as you put your feet into your knickers or had to yank a bit on your zip was pretty marvellous too.

'Are you going to tell your friends tonight?'

'About Cress? No. Suze knows already, of course, but not the others.' She saw the question in Jack's face. 'It's not that I'm ashamed of her, just that, well, there's nothing to tell, is there, yet? No story, I mean. I can't just say, "My daughter's pregnant." People expect details. What's she going to do, that kind of thing. I don't know, do I?' she finished bleakly.

Jack kissed her softly, tucking a curl behind one ear. 'So don't tell them. No need, tonight.' She stood still, with her arms by her sides; she looked so young to him in this light. He held her to him gently. 'It's going to be all right, you know.'

She wanted to believe him. 'Promise?'

'Promise.' They stood that way for ages, half dressed, his arms round her in the fading light.

'I think she is definitely the most vivid, most extraordinary woman character I can ever remember reading. Paula Spencer. She's an alcoholic, she's an abused wife, she's a mother she's unbelievable.'

'Now, here's a question for you, Harry... How do you explain a man writing that?'

'I can't. I kept thinking that all the way through. How could a man know those things, understand those feelings?'

'Totally. And so sad. I read the whole thing in an evening, with this incredible ache across my chest. It's the saddest, saddest story.'

'It sort of made my head ache, too. She jumps about all over the place it was really hard to get the time sequence right the dialogue is difficult to keep up with, and she repeats herself, all the time.'

'She's disoriented, isn't she? She's drunk, and she's grieving, and she's trying to put the story together.'

'I thought it was like an epic poem. The repet.i.tion and stuff were just part of that. It's a monologue. I found myself saying bits of it out loud to myself, in this dodgy Dublin accent.'

'Me too.'

'I thought there was too much swearing. I'm a bit of a puritan for that. I can't watch a film, either, if it's the F-word and the C-word all the time. It gets in the way for me.'

'Oh, I just forgot about that after a while. It's just how Paula speaks, isn't it?'

'I think the reviewer, the one they quote on the cover is wrong. He says it's a "loveless marriage". I thought it was anything but. That's the real sadness of it. She'd have walked years ago, if she hadn't still loved him.'

'I think it's brilliant, the way it makes you understand her love for him and then puts it against a backdrop of abuse. It's totally instant and physical and all-consuming, her love for Charlo, isn't it?'

'Even though in the eyes of the world he's nothing special and, in fact, his death, as a failed kidnapper in a bungled raid, a masked buffoon, underlines that, doesn't it?'

'But at the dance, when she's watching him, and she says about him smoking "He took the f.a.g from his mouth I could feel the lip coming part of the way before letting go" that chemical reaction. And on their honeymoon, dis covering s.e.x, really, really wanting him. It puts the abuse in such a brilliant context. I don't think I've ever got so close to understanding how women stay with men who abuse them as I did reading this.'

'Yeah, she keeps on saying it, doesn't she? That he loves her, loved her right until the end.'

'How could you love someone and give them a choice left or right as to which of your little fingers they would break?'

'Or believe someone who loved you could do that to you, to anyone?'

'It's the worthlessness she feels. That's what got me. Even in her cleaning job. She breaks her back, cleaning these offices all night, and she says she's "a vital cog in the machine, and none of the other cogs have even seen me".'

'And about the alcoholism, she says, "I've never admitted it to anyone. (No one would want to know.)" That's tragic, isn't it?'

'And the beatings... when she's in church and at the shops with all those horrible injuries, "Broken nose, loose teeth, cracked ribs. Ask me ask me ask me." It's like she's invisible or something.'

'Didn't you think it was interesting that the final straw for her was when she thought he was going to go for her daughter? She never worked up the courage to do anything about him when it was just her it was only when she thought one of her kids was in danger that she finally stopped the cycle, the one that had started in her own home.'

Susan was helping Polly stack the dishwasher. Clare was in the bathroom. Harriet smiled at Nicole. 'Makes Gavin look like a dream husband, doesn't he, that Charlo?'

'Stop it.' Nicole wasn't angry, but sometimes she was more in the mood to knock him than she was tonight. She poured another gla.s.s of wine Harriet was driving her home and Gavin was away tonight what did it matter? Soon she would be dry for nine months: better make the most of it now.

She'd been thinking about him, though, reading the book. He'd never laid a hand on her, of course he was nothing like the character Paula described. It wasn't that. It was more to do with the way Paula tried to carry on believing the best, that he loved her, that he was sorry. When she talked about keeping the house and the kids spotless, about putting on lipstick, it was 'to prove to him I was worth it, worth loving.' Was that what Nicole was doing? And the way he looked at her, after he'd hit her, like he was sorry and like he did love her the look that made it possible for you to believe, and keep believing, and for the cycle to continue. That was the same, however much she wanted not to think so. And the hurt. Paula said that she had 'holes in her heart that never stop killing her'. Nicole had those holes.

It wasn't going to end like that for her, though. She wasn't going to throw Gavin out. She wouldn't need to. It wouldn't come to that.

'Can I give you a ride home?' Susan offered. Clare's car was in the garage.

Clare shook her head. 'No, don't worry. I'll catch the bus. It goes from the end of the road.'

'Bus?' As far as Harriet was concerned, Clare might as well have said 'rocket'. She hadn't been on a bus for years. If you couldn't get there practically as the crow flew in a four-wheel drive, she had no interest in going.

'Don't be daft.' Susan was being bossy now. 'It's no trouble, honestly.'

'Thanks, then,' Clare mumbled, into her coat collar.

She's a funny one, Harriet thought. She gets pretty animated when we're talking about a book, and she can couch her opinions and thoughts in the abstract, but then goes quiet again. Prefers to listen.

They said goodnight to the others, and Clare followed Susan to her car a little way up the road.

It wasn't until Susan had started the engine, and indicated to pull out that Clare said, 'I'm not going home. I'm staying at mum's tonight. Dad's away, you see, and I said I'd keep her company.' It all came out in one breath.

Mary hadn't said anything about being on her own, but something in the tilt of Clare's head stopped Susan questioning her. She drove on in silence for a few minutes, but silence wasn't a natural state for Susan, and she dredged around for something to say. 'It was good this month, wasn't it? We seem to be really finding our stride.'

Clare nodded. 'I really liked the book. Liked isn't the right word, I suppose, but I'm glad I read it.'

'Me too. Another world. Makes you think.' Susan shuddered. 'I wasn't sure what I'd make of the reading group, when Harriet first suggested it. I suppose I didn't think I'd be any good at it. Never was much good at school, not at English anyway.'

'I wasn't either. I thought everyone would be dead clever, and that I wouldn't have anything to say.' She smiled at Susan now. 'I only came because Mum made me,' she confessed. 'Ridiculous, isn't it? A grown woman doing what she's told by her mum.'

'I'm still telling my two what to do trying to, at least.'

Clare didn't know how much Susan knew about her, how much Mary had told her. 'It's just that, well, you probably know how much Mum does for me, and I think she... well, I just did it to make her happy. She thinks having an outside interest will make things easier for me.'

'Hopes, not thinks. I think your mum just wants you to...' Susan didn't know how to finish the sentence. Wants you to have the baby you want. Wants it so badly for her that she'd carry it herself if she could.

'I know... She wants me to keep busy. She's been brilliant. That's why I came it was something I could do for her.'

'I'm glad you did.'

'Me too.' Clare dug her hands deep down in her pockets and smiled broadly.

She seems so young, Susan thought. Younger even than Ed and Alex. Infertility was clearly one of those things, like cancer, a cheating husband or a parent with Alzheimer's, to be whispered about, not referred to overtly.

She wanted to talk to Clare about it, but she knew she had no right. She had two gorgeous strapping sons. Why would Clare want to talk to her?

Cressida and Polly Cressida hadn't shown anyone the picture they had given her at the hospital. She kept it in her wallet, under her student-union card. The name BRADFORD was written in black type along the side of the scan that stuck out above the plastic of the card every time she looked at it she felt affirmed. BRADFORD. BABY BRADFORD.

Now it was time to talk to Polly. It was a Sat.u.r.day: Jack had taken Daniel to the football, so it was just the two of them at home. Polly had been up for some time, and doubtless thought that Cressida was still asleep, head under the duvet. Instead she was fully dressed, sitting on the edge of her bed with the scan image in her hand. She ran one finger speculatively across it, slipped it into the back pocket of her jeans and went to face her mother.

Downstairs, Polly heard Cressida moving about and poured another mug of coffee from the cafetiere. She was desperate for a conversation, but determined not to let it show. 'Good morning, darling. You're up.'

'Morning, mum.' Cressida sat down in front of the mug Polly had put for her on the kitchen table. 'Can we talk?'

'Of course, sweetheart.'

'By which I mean to say, can I talk? I've been doing a lot of thinking, and I've got some stuff sorted out in my head, and I just want to tell you. I don't want to fight, I really couldn't bear it. So can I talk, and can you listen?'

Polly was impressed by her calm, and could see that Cressida had put a lot of thought into that speech. 'Okay.' Anyway, she had no choice her daughter was holding all the cards. Jack had made her see that.

'Right. First of all, I wanted you to know that I'm pretty sure Joe and I have split up.'

Polly was shocked. It was not what she had been expecting to hear.

'Things haven't been going well the whole time he's been in Warwick, and when he came home at Christmas, well, things had just changed between us. I suppose it was bound to happen, with him going off and starting this whole new life and everything.'

She looked at Polly, must have seen the question in her face, but couldn't bring herself to hold the gaze while she answered: 'No, it's nothing like that he hasn't met anyone else.'

As she said it she realised two things: first that she had no idea whether he had met anyone else or not, and second, that she really hoped he had. Someone nice and simple.

'It had just run its course, that's all. I think it fizzled out, and I think we both admitted it, that last night before he went back. I haven't spoken to him since.'

Polly didn't know what to think. Was that why Cressida was so desperate for him not to know? Was she afraid he would think she was trying to trap him? She hadn't thought that might be it, although of course, now, it made perfect sense this happened to most kids their age, didn't it, when they went off to college? Poor Cress. Polly wondered if she had done the right thing in encouraging her daughter to stay at home when all her mates were leaving for their new lives. Had she just been selfish?

Cressida was still talking: 'And I'm okay about that. Really I am.'

'Good.' Polly leant across and touched Cressida's arm. 'I'm sorry about that, love.'

'It's okay.' A deep breath. 'And the second thing, well, I've decided to keep it. I'm going to have this baby.' She wasn't looking at Polly when she said it, but at the pine table. Now she raised her head, looked straight at her mother. Her voice was stronger than she felt. 'Whatever you say, Mum, I'm going to have this baby. Don't ask me why. I just think it's the only option I have. I've thought about the others, believe me, and this is the only one that feels right. And it would be easier, and nicer, if you were on my side. So, please, be on my side, Mum?'

It was a question.

What could she say? Polly looked at the girl-woman sitting across from her, and a montage of memories pa.s.sed through her mind. All the times she'd been on Cressida's side. The colic nights of pacing and pacifying, the first day at school, concerts and sports days, when she was pa.s.sed over for party invitations, or had spots, and when the friends.h.i.+ps and exams came out right. All those times. Where else could she be but on Cressida's side. She nodded, and got up. She needed to be touching her now. Mother and child. And child. She folded her in a hug that lasted for ages. When they broke apart, both wet-eyed, Polly realised that a stillness, a sort of peacefulness, had descended on them that had been missing since she'd found out about the baby. That phase was over.

Now Cressida pulled the scan picture out of her pocket and proffered it. Polly took it, and realised, for the first time, that she was looking at her grandchild. This was her baby's baby. It was scary, and it was not what was supposed to happen, but here it was anyway.

'Oh!' was all she could say.

'I know,' Cressida said. And so the new phase began.

Dear Joe.

I am so very sorry about Christmas. I know things were rubbish between us, and I owed you an explanation, for lots of things. I was a coward for not talking to you then, and maybe I am a coward for writing to you now. But I can't come to Warwick it would be too weird, and I'm sure it's the last thing you want, or it will be after you've read this.

I'm not writing this to hurt you. Please don't think that. I want you to know, from me, not from anyone else, what's going on with me. But it will hurt you, I know. And I'm sorry for that.