Before they married and after they declared their love for each other, those were days of a restful joy. He was long, you see. Lying side by side, their feet interlocked, she could rub her cheek against his solar plexus. She could curl and tell him what his intestines were saying. He could move his index finger along the curve of her earlobe, back and forth.
He was soft, the way men were not allowed to be. They played a lot. Silly games. One was a game of finding things.
‘Let’s say I get lost,’ Peter would start. They’d be at the park, he’d have hidden a small bottle of beer in his inside jacket pocket. ‘You lose me and have to describe me to someone.’
‘Peter James. Large lumbering giant of a man. Thick fingers. Strong-looking. Competent.’
Peter would laugh. The idea was to throw in both insults and compliments. It was a game that meant you’d been looking, that you’d noticed things regular people had not. It was the kind of game you could tie your love up in, without putting your heart in too much danger. They both liked to play.
What of now – what if she played it now?
‘Sandy blond hair that went white with time. The grey hides the dandruff. He wears spectacles, which he keeps on his brow or dangling from his neck with a cord that I bought him. A green cord. His skin tans easily, he has bushy eyebrows and his face, that he kept clean-shaven as a young man, he let overgrow with beard in his last years. Hard and spiky, the hairs were, when I felt them on my cheek and chin. He’s wearing a simple white shirt and khaki shorts, he’s got sandals. He wears no jewellery, except his wedding band and a beaded bracelet I bought him after we became lovers. Peter is an avid red meat-eater, despite the doctor’s orders. He doesn’t know that I know he’s in cahoots with Bassey and he steals onto the verandah to eat a cut of steak every few weeks. One of his teeth, an incisor, is turning yellow. The inside of his mouth is such a light shade of pink, I’m always taken by surprise whenever I catch a glimpse of it.’
And he knew chemistry. Tr, she’d say, their bodies at right-angles, her head on his stomach.
‘No, doesn’t exist.’
‘Tg? Tl?’
‘Tl. Eighty-one. Thallium. A metal.
‘Sc.’
‘Twenty-one. Scandium.’
‘You’re lying.’
‘No, true. Scandium. Used in lamps … amongst other things.’
‘Okay. Sa. No, no, Sg.’
‘Seaborgium.’
She raised her head, shot him a look.
‘Truly. Seaborgium. It’s number a hundred and six.’
Gordon Mama’s laugh reverberated through the house like thunder. Marion stood at the door of her room listening. She’d never heard anyone laugh that way. Ever. She put her hand on the knob, rested there, didn’t turn it. He was probably doing a routine check-up. Might he wish to see her, what with her bogus position as nursemaid? She turned the knob and stood in the doorway. The laughter had stopped. Marion walked down the stairs, petting the banister, remembering when she’d specified the walnut. And then all the trouble to get the grain running the way she felt it must, arguing with the carpenter, the whole thing.
‘Good morning, Marion,’ Bassey, whom nothing got past, greeted her at the bottom of the staircase.
‘Bassey,’ Marion said.
‘Breakfast?’
‘Yes, please. I noticed Dr Mama came in.’
‘He’s in the study.’ Bassey gestured with his hand, waving her on.
Marion knocked, feeling ridiculous.
‘Yes, Marion,’ came Hortensia’s response.
Hortensia didn’t look happy to see her.
‘Ah, Marion,’ Mama said. ‘I was just asking for you.’
‘Good morning, Doctor. Hortensia.’
‘Progress is good. I’m really pleased with the healing,’ Mama said to Marion with such seriousness.
She tried not to laugh. And then she felt embarrassed; since she’d moved in, she hadn’t once asked Hortensia how she was.
‘Good,’ Marion said and ignored the way Hortensia’s eyes darted upwards.
Mama buckled his bag.
‘That was quick,’ Marion said, wondering why she’d come in at all, why it had seemed important to see him again.
Bassey appeared through the open door. ‘Mrs Agostino, will you be taking breakfast in here?’
There was silence as Mama played with an already-done buckle.
‘Why not join us?’ Marion asked.
Hortensia frowned.
‘For breakfast, Dr Mama. Join Hortensia and I.’
Bassey outdid himself. He covered the long wooden table in the sunroom with Hortensia’s pineapple-yellow chambray. A white squat vase in the middle with three sprigs of red hibiscus from the garden. Marion and Mama sat in the lounge, catching the aroma of pancakes, fried eggs, sausages and sautéed mushrooms.
Hortensia, once she’d warmed to the idea of a breakfast, had insisted on getting dressed. She appeared wearing an olive-green jacket with Chelsea collar, a pastel green T-shirt underneath and a faded blue-jean skirt. It must have been an effort to get dressed. She even wore shoes, pigskin, Marion guessed. The whole effect spoilt only by the walker.
‘Shall we?’ Hortensia asked.
They rose and followed her to the sunroom.
Conversation flapped about, looking for deep waters. For a few minutes Bassey worked in the background, cleaning up in the kitchen. He hovered, added a jug of water with slices of kiwi and mint leaves. Added a plate of cut strawberries and a bowl of cream onto an already full table.