A Gift of Poison Read online

  It explains a lot. Why Richard tried to kill Felix. Why Helen doesn’t want to be friends any more. She has telephoned Helen, sent her cards, even gone to the house to invite her out, but all with the same result: Helen wants to be left alone. She has said this in various ways. ‘I’m not very good company at the moment.’ Or: ‘Sorry, I’m really trying to get a lot of work done.’ Once Elizabeth went round with flowers (as a bribe, she later realised, but it had worked in the past) and Helen still wouldn’t ask her in. ‘Thank you so much. I’m a bit of a hermit these days, I’m afraid.’

  Elizabeth doesn’t know what to do. Only Helen knows the whole story, knows more than Elizabeth. Helen holds the key, but she won’t hand it over. In a way this is a relief. Elizabeth doesn’t have to do anything until she has proof and only Helen can give it to her. She is almost grateful to Helen for refusing to co-operate. She doesn’t want proof. She wants everything to be the way it was before any of this happened. She looks back to the idyllic time when Felix merely had affairs with people she didn’t know. She is amazed how painless that time looks to her now, although she clearly remembers suffering through it. No wonder Helen thought she was pathetic and ridiculous.

  And there is something else. Some skeleton in the closet. It wasn’t just an affair, was it? It was more than that. There was some extra dimension of horror. She can’t tell how she knows this but it is part of her skin, her bones. There is some awful additional secret that she needs Helen to tell her, but which in some deep hidden place she already knows.

  And yet, such is her respect for Felix’s work that she doesn’t challenge him; she lets the months go by and watches him work and reads what he lets her read and tells him, truthfully, that it’s good. Even now, she doesn’t want to sabotage the book. She knows how hard it is to do, how much is riding on it. Felix has had to destroy Tony Blythe to get to this book. It’s his only option now; he has manoeuvred himself into a necessary corner. So she’s supportive: she has to be. And in a way she finds comfort in her familiar role. She reads, listens, praises, cooks. She lets the time pass without recrimination: she remembers when she sat by his hospital bed and thought he might die and promised God anything to let that not happen. And God heard her. Felix is still alive, still here, and still unfaithful. And they still make love, only now sometimes she weeps and he doesn’t ask her why.

  * * *

  Helen learns more about loneliness than she ever wanted to know, and she thought she already knew everything. She feels she has gone back in time and all the love and security of the past ten years have never existed. When she wakes she doesn’t at first remember whether she has lost Carey or Richard; she only knows she is alone again and has to re-learn all those arid self-sufficient survival skills that she thought she had put away for ever.

  Sally treats her gently but with slightly distant sympathy, as for a relative who has had an embarrassing accident like falling down in the street, a misfortune, certainly, but perhaps one that could have been avoided with a little extra care. Helen feels she has let Sally down. She has turned back into a problem after being a tower of strength. Their roles are reversed, as if Sally were the patient disappointed mother and Helen the errant daughter returning home after yet another failed marriage. Helen hears unspoken criticism. ‘First my father leaves you, then my stepfather. What is the matter with you that you can’t get a man to stay with you and let me off the hook? I’m very fond of you but I can’t be responsible for you for ever, you know.’ Sally watches her now where once she would have hugged her. She brings her drinks and snacks. She often asks if Helen is all right, but she clearly wants the answer yes. And there is a certain detachment in her manner, as if she were saying, ‘Look, I’m sorry, but I can’t get too involved this time. We’ve been here before and I’ve got to look after myself.’ She goes out with her friends a lot and when she comes in she looks at Helen apprehensively, as if hoping not to hear of any fresh disasters. ‘I hate Richard,’ she says one day. ‘I think you’re better off without him.’ Helen wants to say, ‘Now you know how I feel about Felix,’ and having made up her mind not to, suddenly hears the words coming out of her mouth. She is surprised at herself. Sally stares at her for a moment, defiantly, then shrugs. ‘Just don’t talk about him, all right?’ she says. ‘I don’t ever want to hear you mention his name again.’ She goes out. She slams the door hard behind her, shaking the house.

  The abortion weighs heavily between them: at any rate Helen blames Sally’s detachment on that. They get through the Easter vac as best they can but when Sally goes back to Sussex for the summer term Helen feels certain they are both thinking that now is the time the baby would have been born. She can see the thought in Sally’s face, but she still believes she did the right thing and she has to hang on to that belief, or else all this pain is for nothing. They have a chilly farewell, although they hug and kiss on both cheeks. And then Helen is really alone.

  She tells her friends: ‘Richard and I have separated. And I don’t want to discuss it.’ The few friends she has, that is. She has never had much time or need for friends. They got in the way of work. They made demands. They drained her energy. She couldn’t spread herself so thin, not with two days a week at college and the other days in the studio… time with Sally… time with Richard. Where could she fit in friends?

  Now perhaps she would like some, although she doesn’t want to be an object of pity. Now she seems to have a lot of time. The days are hard to fill and the studio feels as empty as the house, which puzzles her. She expected it of the house, where she lived with Richard, but not the studio, which has always been hers alone. It’s ten years since she lived there with Sally, since Richard came and found them. She almost used the word rescued. Though at the time she thought it was the other way round, that it was she who rescued him from Inge.

  Inge. He’s living with Inge. She knows anyway, but he leaves her a note on the kitchen table along with his wedding ring. An address, a phone number, just to hurt her. He doesn’t love Inge. It can’t last. It’s just cheaper, somewhere to hide, to punish her, to punish himself, to atone. She understands all that.

  So she tells herself. But she takes off her wedding ring too and leaves Richard a note to stop him coming round for clothes and things while she’s out. She wants his keys back: after all he doesn’t live here any more. Why should he walk in as if he did? It’s like being burgled by a close friend. After each of his visits there’s a wounding gap in the bookcase, the wardrobe, the record collection. But she’s also surprised how few possessions he has. How easily he can move from one home to the other. How she and Inge each have a complete home waiting for him to enter. She remembers him saying bitterly that he was only a lodger in her home and not even a very good one: he couldn’t pay enough rent. She imagines Inge’s joy, and it makes her feel sick. She remembers the crazed creature on her doorstep shrieking, ‘You’ve lost him for ever,’ when it seemed like a curse but not a reality.

  When she sees him she imagines he will say he’s made a terrible mistake, will plead to come back. Each time she waits for these words. But he is polite and distant. Seeing him gives her a terrible pain in the heart as well as a sense of disbelief. And then the visits stop. He’s finally taken all his books and clothes and records. She’s really alone. She keeps the two wedding rings in an old empty biscuit tin in the kitchen because she can’t bring herself to throw them away.

  Only Elizabeth pesters her. Is Elizabeth perhaps her only true friend? She takes bitter pleasure in rejecting Elizabeth, using up all the anger meant for Richard, who has left her unjustly. Or for Sally, who has cost her the marriage.

  She tries to work but often only succeeds in going to the studio and sitting in front of an empty canvas, pulling bits of horsehair stuffing out of the old armchair. She tells herself that salvation lies in work but she can’t do any. It’s as much as she can do to get herself through the day. She is so tired. She sleeps and sleeps and always wakes exhausted. The more she sleeps, the more exhausted
she gets. When she does work she finds she doesn’t want to paint any more: all she can do are charcoal drawings of the skull she keeps in the studio, dozens of drawings, at first just the abstract shape, then gradually becoming more representational, each drawing only marginally different from the previous one, as if for an animated cartoon. The drawings are good, she can see that, but she hasn’t drawn like this since she was a student. In the final version, as realistic (lifelike, deathlike?) as a photograph, she draws the skull in a suit, complete with collar and tie. Then she sits and laughs out loud at it, rocking backwards and forwards in the disembowelled chair. She thinks she is going mad, but it doesn’t matter.

  So she drags herself through the spring, the summer. In the long vacation Sally rides around the States on a Greyhound bus. When she comes back she goes to visit her father. Finally coming home in September she seems to have run out of places to hide. Now she sits in the garden sheltering behind a book, or stays in her room playing loud music. And occasionally she goes out to lunch or dinner, always looking her best and never saying where she is going. And suddenly Helen knows. And she also can’t believe it.

  She says to Sally, ‘You’re seeing him again, aren’t you?’

  Sally says insolently, ‘Who?’

  ‘Felix.’

  ‘I thought we agreed you wouldn’t mention his name.’

  ‘Are you seeing him?’

  ‘It’s none of your business.’

  Helen screams. They are both shocked by the sudden loud noise, more so by such embarrassing, uncharacteristic loss of control.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ Sally says.

  Part One

  Inge tells herself it is only a matter of time. If she is patient and loving. If she can wait. If she puts no pressure on him, eventually he will turn to her.

  At first the triumph of his return carries her through. The thrill of victory, the knowledge that he has left the cow and come home makes her feel very powerful. Just having him in the house every day and lying beside him every night is enough. At first she can hardly sleep because knowing he is there keeps her awake to marvel at the knowledge, like a mother checking to make sure that the newborn is still breathing. She remembers all the nights she slept alone, the desert she lived in for so many years while he was happy with someone else. She has to stay awake to assimilate the new reality of her life, to absorb how much it has changed. Small mundane things, like seeing post arrive addressed to him, please her vastly, proving that he lives here again.

  But as the weeks pass and he doesn’t make love to her, her confidence ebbs away. How long does she have to wait? What if he never does? When patience is exhausted she tries provocation: new scent and seductive underwear, rubbing her naked body against him in bed instead of accepting routine hugs and kisses and clothing. He doesn’t respond: he ignores her and then moves away. He says, ‘I’m sorry, Inge, it’s going to take time.’

  She says, ‘How much time?’

  He says, ‘I don’t know.’

  She says, ‘But Richard, I can’t live like this, I’ve tried so hard but it’s killing me.’ She hadn’t meant to be so dramatic, but all the frustration and disappointment of the past weeks wells up and spills over. She doesn’t believe he has any idea how much it has cost her.

  He says, ‘I know and I’m sorry.’

  She weeps and he comforts her. They fall into uneasy sleep. Over the next few weeks it happens again and again. A pattern is created that torments her and she can’t leave it alone. Knowing she should let him be, she keeps on and on, worrying at him, until one night he actually starts to cry and says, ‘I’m sorry, I can’t help it, there’s nothing I can do about it. Not yet.’

  She says, ‘It’s all right, it’s my fault.’ She tries to comfort him and he pushes her away. She is terrified that they may live like this for ever.

  * * *

  The boys don’t help. Karl doesn’t speak to his father at all. He talks across him directly to Inge as if Richard isn’t there, even when he is sitting next to him at the table. It gives her an eerie sensation, as if Richard really is invisible, as if only she and Peter can see him, as if he is a phantom of their joint imagination who might actually disappear at any moment. ‘Talk to your father, Karl,’ she says, alarmed. ‘I’m talking to you, Mum,’ Karl says, eating. ‘My father left home years ago. Don’t you remember? He went off with another woman.’

  Karl is only present for meals and sleep. If he’s not at the kitchen table, he’s out or in his room, while Peter hangs around Richard asking for help with homework (‘D’you know anything about Bolivia, Dad?’), trips to football (‘Can we go to the match on Saturday, Dad?’), anything to get his attention, behaving as if he were much younger, perhaps trying to turn back the clock, Inge thinks. He watches Richard’s face anxiously to gauge his mood. It breaks her heart to see him try so hard. He reminds her of herself.

  One day she hears him asking, ‘You won’t go away again, Dad, will you?’ She holds her breath for Richard’s reply and when it comes it sounds frighteningly burdened. ‘No, of course I won’t.’ She doesn’t know how Peter feels about it, but it doesn’t reassure her at all.

  The harmony between the boys is disrupted: they quarrel with each other because Peter is nice to Richard and Karl ignores him. If Peter says, ‘What d’you think, Dad?’ Karl will say, ‘Why bother asking him? He may not be here tomorrow.’ Peter thumps Karl. Karl shoves Peter. Inge says, ‘Oh God, please don’t.’ Richard says, ‘Karl, if you’re angry with me tell me how you feel, don’t take it out on Peter.’ Karl stands up. ‘I’m going out now, Mum, okay?’ he says pleasantly. ‘I won’t be late.’ He goes out. He is taller than Richard, heavy, threatening. He is seventeen now and growing into himself; he is a powerful presence in the house. Inge is distraught at his hostility yet also somehow thrilled by his arrogance: it is like having a champion in the lists, a lover to spring to her aid, Lancelot defending Guinevere when Arthur is cruel.

  * * *

  She goes to her doctor, who is also Richard’s doctor now. She values him. He has known her for many years, coped with her tears, prescribed many drugs, listened to her, talked to her, seen her through everything. She says, ‘What can I do? I can’t live like this. It’s three months now. It’s torture. We’re living together and sleeping together and we don’t make love. I can’t bear it. Why did he come back? It’s almost worse than being alone. At least then I knew I was alone and I could have other people. But now he’s with me and not with me. Can you help me? How can I make him want me? Or how can I stop wanting him? I’ve got to do one or the other.’

  * * *

  She says bravely to Richard, ‘I’ve talked to Dr Shaw and he was very nice and understanding about it.’ Seeing his shocked expression she rushes on before he can interrupt her. ‘There are people who can help us. We can go to marriage guidance. Or he can send us to see a therapist. It’s all right. There’s someone he recommends who has a private practice in Hampstead, only it’s too expensive, but that doesn’t matter because he does one evening a week at the health centre and we can see him there for nothing, except there’s a waiting list, of course. Will you come with me?’

  As she talks her nervousness goes and she begins to feel hopeful and excited.

  His eyes close, as if to shut her out. He says, ‘Oh God, Inge… can’t you let it rest?’

  ‘But we have to do something. I can’t live like this. And the boys… If we were happier they might be too.’

  ‘That has nothing to do with sex,’ he says wearily. ‘Karl won’t forgive me for being away. He got used to being the man of the house and he doesn’t want me taking his place. And Peter wants me to make up for all those missing years. Those are two opposite things, Inge, it’s hard to do them both at once.’

  ‘They know we’re not happy,’ she says, ‘and it makes them worse.’

  ‘And I’m still trying to get used to the new job,’ he goes on as if he has not heard her. ‘It’s a tough school and I’m rusty. It’s
not easy getting back into teaching. I want to make you happy but I’ve got a lot on my plate and I’m very tired.’

  ‘Are you still in love with her?’ she says, shaking with fright, not knowing where she finds the courage to ask, or what she will do if he says yes.

  ‘I wouldn’t be here, would I?’ he says. It’s not the positive denial she needs to hear but she senses he won’t do better.

  ‘Well, we have to wait for an appointment,’ she says, ‘so maybe it will be in the summer holidays when you’re not so tired. And if you won’t come with me I’ll go by myself. Perhaps he can teach me how to bear the pain of living like this and I won’t have to bother you any more.’

  He doesn’t answer.

  * * *

  Weeks pass. Then Dr Shaw offers her a cancellation before the end of term. She tells Richard. He shakes his head. She thinks he looks relieved.

  ‘I can’t – it’s a parents’ evening.’

  She looks at him incredulously.

  ‘I can’t miss it. It’s part of the job. You know that.’

  ‘But Richard, how can you say that? This is our marriage. Isn’t that more important? What did you come back for if you don’t want to make it all right?’ She is so shocked. And she senses she is on firm ground. ‘You’re glad to have an excuse, aren’t you?’

  He says, ‘Look, Inge, I will come with you, but it’ll have to be another time. I can’t miss a PTA meeting. What would I say to Kate?’

  ‘Kate?’

  ‘My head of department. How could I explain it to her?’

  ‘You could say you want to save your marriage. She’s a woman, she would understand.’

  ‘Perhaps, but she’d also tell me to choose some other evening to do it. Inge, be reasonable. It’d be very embarrassing. It’s too short notice.’