We were undulating anyway. Not just pillow talk, you might say, but billow talk, and what with this and all the sharing of our earlier years, I may even have had a fleeting picture of the long, rhythmic waves that used to roll and spill, not onto Brighton beach, but onto the sandy crescent bay at Craiginish in Scotland, where I’d spent summers as an unsuspecting girl and where one day, yes, Kate — I certainly wouldn’t have suspected this on that night in Osborne Street — your father would propose to me, actually if not exactly formally propose to me, in the dunes.
I’d already broached the Scottish thing. Yes, I was a Campbell, Paula Campbell, though in fact I came from Kensington. And here I was anyway in Sussex, on the south coast, about as far from Scotland as you could get.
But the undulating, for a moment, had its obstacle, its impending, unavoidable difficulty. There was no way I could break it gently to your father. He would form the wrong impression, he would take alarm, he might even feel he was caught (please not) in some kind of punishable act.
I didn’t want to interrupt your daddy’s sweet and gathering rhythm, so I said it as softly as I could.
“He’s a High Court judge.”
5
WHEN YOUR FATHER was twenty-one, he didn’t wear prisoner-of-war clothes. He wore, just for the embarrassing record, purple trousers with huge flares and a cracked leather jacket over a rotation (turquoise, muddy orange, salmon pink) of those T-shirts with buttons at the top which used to be called, and I never thought it funny then, granddad T-shirts. He had black hair almost to his shoulders, which was a bit curly and gypsyish at the ends. (Let’s not delve into my student wardrobe.) He looked pretty good, pretty unembarrassing to me.
And to Linda and to Judy, with differing consequences, beforehand. One way or the other, they’d relinquished their claims. There was no competition. All the same, since they were both in the house and were certainly interested, it was an open question exactly how things would proceed on the morning after that night.
We must have got some sleep. After dawn, perhaps, as the light came seeping in and the Brighton gulls began their morning mewing and squawking. It was a March night, a Friday to a Saturday night — like this night. It’s permanently inscribed in my mental almanac, and I’ve mentally placed an indelible plaque on the front wall of 33 Osborne Street: “Paula Campbell and Michael Hook first slept together here.”
I suppose it was still technically possible when we finally emerged, at some time approaching midday, that that night might have proved to be just another visit. No, your dad hadn’t come to stay, to spend the rest of his life with me. But I didn’t think I had to ask the question, and Linda and Judy at least weren’t going to deny what they could see with their eyes. All students get up late, but the two of them had been loitering for some time in the kitchen, clearly not intent on going anywhere. They were waiting to check us out. I still see their slightly glassy stares. Well, well, they might have said. Well, well, what have we here? But their silences and fidgety displays of matter-of-factness were perhaps more eloquent still.
And could this all have happened — it’s an entirely theoretical question, of course — if he hadn’t slept (or had some kind of turn) with the two of them first?
It was a mild, moist morning, the sun just trying to break through pearly clouds. The kitchen window was open to let in the air, or to let out the smell of burnt toast. All four of us were grouped round the table, all of us in various states of undress — but then didn’t we all know each other, just about? Wasn’t there now a pretty thorough familiarity, in fact?
But then again, was this quite the same kitchen, quite the same Brighton even, its relaxed weekend sounds wafting through the window, as only last night?
I suppose it was still technically possible that your father might have crunched his toast, downed his coffee, smacked his lips and said, “Well, nice knowing you, girls, must be off.” Three more notches (if that’s how it really was), a full house, so to speak, to his score. The purple-trousered bastard.
But he definitely didn’t.
And let’s call it two and a half. In Osborne Street, that is. I’ve never known precisely what his overall score was. One doesn’t ask. I think it can be assumed that this is a number no man is honest about. But, take it from me, your dad did his sleeping around before he came to a halt with me. I don’t say that to boast, to claim surrogate points. Perhaps I do. With me, it was six. Honest. To some that may seem quite a few, in two years, to some not so many. It was enough for me: to be able to say I’d slept around. And to sort out the Mikeys from the rest. What are women programmed to do? Biologists will tell you, and Mike was one: to select a mate.
But take it from me too, the formal study of biology, in your father’s final year at Sussex University, was of secondary, temporarily receding interest. He’d branched out. Whatever his score was, before me, he scored. Scoring wasn’t his problem: this fifty-year-old man, comatose now at my side.
But before he fell asleep tonight we made love in a special, a poignant, a farewell way. You’ll understand this soon.
It’s possible that in that never to be forgotten kitchen in Osborne Street your father might have taken his leave of my life, of Linda’s and Judy’s. And of yours. I might have become just a sad addition to his score. But I don’t think it was ever on the cards, and what he actually did was something marvellous. I fell in love with him, if that was possible, more. And, given our nocturnal conversation, I could just about feel, too, how it must have felt for him. Sometimes a woman can feel like a man feels. I’d already begun, you see, to feel your dad’s feelings. To be twenty-one and not to be a prisoner of war. To be centre-stage of life and not to put a foot wrong.
He finished his coffee. He looked levelly at all of us, but his hand, I remember, under the table, was surely placed on my thigh. The granddad T-shirt, that weekend, was a gruesome shade of magenta, his hair could probably have done with a wash, but he spoke like a lord. These days, as you know, it’s your father’s business to command. He has to address those board meetings, give little rallying speeches at conferences, generally come up with the right message — he’ll need all his skills tomorrow. I could never have predicted it, all those years ago. But perhaps that little quorum round the kitchen table at Osborne Street was an early glimpse.
“Ladies,” he said. Ladies! The three maisonettes. “Ladies, thank you for breakfast. Lunch will be on me. On the beach, with champagne. You’re all invited.”
Undoubtedly one of your father’s finest moments — not counting the whole of that preceding night. I was amazed at his chivalrous presence of mind. Even I could see that Linda and Judy couldn’t have been expected just to clear off. They were part of this unique occasion, they had to be honoured — thanked. In any case, they weren’t going to decline such an offer. I was amazed by how your father masterminded that day. As he spoke the sun came peeping through those pale clouds. It would be starting to dry and warm the pebbles already. And what do people do on a warm, sunny Saturday in Brighton, the first such Saturday of the spring?