Harriet Evans - Love Always

HARRIET EVANS

Love Always

For Chris
I.W.O.

Contents

Cornwall, 1963

If you close your eyes, perhaps you can still see them. As they were that sundrenched afternoon, the day everything changed.

Outside the house, in the shadows by the terrace, when they thought no one was looking. Mary is in the kitchen making chicken salad and singing along to Music While You Work on the Home Service. Theres no one else around. Its the quiet before lunch, too hot to do anything.

Come on, she says. She is laughing. Just one cigarette, and then you can go back up. She chatters her little white teeth together, her pink lips wet. I wont bite, promise.

He looks anxiously around him. All right.

She has her back to him as she picks her way confidently through the black brambles and grey-green reeds, down the old path that leads to the sea. Her glossy hair is caught under the old green and yellow towel she has wrapped round her neck. He follows, nervously.

Hes terrified of these encounters terrified because he knows theyre wrong, but still he wants them, more than hes wanted anything in his life. He wants to feel her honey-soft skin, to let his hand move up her thigh, to nuzzle her neck, to hear her cool, cruel laugh. He has known a couple of women: eager, rough-haired girls at college, all inky fingers and beery breath, but this is different. He is a boy compared to her.

Oh, he knows its wrong, what theyre doing. He knows his head has been turned, by the heat, the long, light evenings, the intoxicating almost frightening sense of liberation here at Summercove, but he just doesnt care. He feels truly free at last.

The world is becoming a different place, theres something happening this summer. A change is coming, they can all feel it. And that feeling is especially concentrated here, in the sweet, lavender-soaked air of Summercove, where the crickets sing long into the night and where the Kapoors let their guests, it would seem, do what on earth they want... Being there is like being on the inside of one of those glass domes you have as a child, visible to the outside world, filled with glitter, waiting to be shaken up. The Kapoors know it too. They are all moths, drawn to the flickering candlelight.

Hurry up, darling, she says, almost at the bottom of the steps now in the bright light, the white dots on her blue polka-dot swimming costume dancing before his eyes. He clings to the rope handle, terrified once more. The steps are dark and slippery, cut into the cliffs and slimy with algae. She watches him, laughing. She often makes him feel ridiculous. Hes never been around bohemian people before. All his life, even now, he has been used to having rules, being told when to wash behind his ears, when to hand an essay in, used to the smell of sweaty boys now young men queuing for meals, changing for cricket. Hes at the top of the pile, knows his place there, hes secure in that world.

He justifies it by saying this is different. Its one last hurrah, and he means to make the most of it, even if it is terrifying... He stumbles on a slippery step as she watches him from the beach, a cigarette dangling from her lip. His knee gives way beneath him, and for one terrifying moment he thinks he will fall, until he slams his other leg down, righting himself at the last minute.

Careful, darling, she drawls. Someones going to get killed on those steps if theyre not careful.

Shaken, he reaches the bottom, and she comes towards him, handing him a cigarette, laughing. So clumsy, she says, and he hates her in that moment, hates how sophisticated and smooth she is, so heedless of what shes doing, how wrong it is... He takes the cigarette but does not light it. He pulls her towards him instead, kissing her wet, plump pink lips, and she gives a little moan, wriggling her slim body against his. He can feel himself getting hard already, and her fingers move down his body, and he pushes her against the rock, and they kiss again.

Have you always been this bad? he asks her afterwards, as they are smoking their cigarettes. The heat of the sun is drying the sweat on their bodies. They lie together on the tiny beach, sated, as the waves crash next to them. A lost sandal, relic of someone elses wholly innocent summer day, is bobbing around at the edge of the tide. The cigarette is thick and rancid in his mouth. Now its over, as ever, he is feeling sick.

She turns to him. Im not bad.

He thinks she is. He thinks she is evil, in fact, but he cant stay away from her. She smiles slowly, and he says, without knowing why he needs to say it, Look, its been lots of fun. But I think its best if He trails off. Break it off.

Her face darkens for a second. You pompous ass. She laughs, sharply. Break it off? Break what off? Theres nothing to break off. This isnt... anything.

He is aware that he sounds stupid. I thought we should at least discuss it. Didnt want to give you the God, he wishes it were over. He finds himself giving her a little nod. Give you the wrong impression.

Oh, thats very kind of you. She stubs the cigarette into the wet sand, and stands up, pulling the towel off the ground and around her again. He cant tell if shes angry or relieved, or what? This is all beyond him, and it strikes him again that hes glad it will be over and that soon he can go back to being himself again, boring, ordinary, out of all this, normal.

Its been he begins.

Oh, fuck you, she says. Dont you dare. She turns to go, but as she does something comes tumbling down the steps. It is a small piece of black slate.

And then there is a noise, a kind of thudding. Footsteps.

Whos there? he says, looking up, but after the white light of the midday sun it is impossible to see anyone on the dark steps.

In the long years afterwards, when he never spoke about this summer, what happened, he would ask himself because there was no one else he could ask: Who? His wife? His family? Hah if hed been wrong about what hed seen. For in that moment hed swear he could make out a small foot, disappearing back up onto the path to the house.

He turns back to her. Damn. Was that someone, do you think?

She sighs. No, of course not. The paths crumbling, thats all. Youre paranoid, darling. She says lightly, As if theyd ever believe it of you, anyway. Calm down. Remember, were supposed to be grown-ups. Act like one.

She puts one hand on the rope and hauls herself gracefully up. Bye, darling, she says, and he watches her go. Dont worry, she calls. No ones going to find out. Its our little secret.

But someone did. Someone saw it all.

It is 7:16 a.m.

The train to Penzance leaves at seven-thirty. I have fifteen minutes to get to Paddington. I stand in a motionless Hammersmith and City line carriage, clutching the overhead rail so hard my fingers ache. I have to catch this train; its a matter of life and death.

Quite literally, in fact my grandmothers funeral is at two-thirty today. Youre allowed to be an hour late for dinner, but you cant be an hour late for a funeral. Its a once-in-a-lifetime deal.

Ive lived in London all my life. I know the best places to eat, the bars that are open after twelve, the coolest galleries, the prettiest spots in the parks. And I know the Hammersmith and City line is useless. I hate it. Why didnt I leave earlier? Impotent fury washes through me. And still the carriage doesnt move.