The Hole in the Trousers

Jenny Kingsley

His trousers were torn and bloodied at the knee and there were tearstains on his cheeks.

‘Dad? Why’re you..? Where’s Mummy?’ Will was looking at me straight in the face, narrowing his eyes. My presence interfered with his expectations, his immediate needs. I was an intruder.

Lean and tall for his fourteen years, Will nearly matched my height. People said we looked alike and politely refrained from commenting upon the slight differences. I had a paunch that was quite compact, much more flesh on my face, and less hair for framing.

For a moment, Will’s bigness made me feel defensive, rather than protective. But our child-man deserved reassurance.

‘She’s at the library. She thought she’d stay a little longer because I’m…’

‘How long?’

‘Not long, soon. What’s happened to you? Are you OK?’

‘Fine.’ He pressed his lips together.

‘You don’t look…’

‘I really am. Fine.’ His nostrils flared with impatience.

‘The case finished before we expected, so I decided I’d come home early instead of going back to chambers. We could all do the tree, and go to the carol service together.’

He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. I offered him my handkerchief but he waved my hand away and wiped his nose again.

‘Look, let’s clean you up and you can change and we’ll have some… ’

‘I don’t need your help.’

‘When I was a Scout, I was a dab hand at first aid.’

‘I’m not a Scout. OK? I know where the plasters and stuff are in your bathroom.’

‘You’ll need a bandage,’ I called as he mounted the stairs.

Should I go upstairs after a short while, I pondered, stand outside the closed bathroom door and ask him how he was managing to dress his wounds? Would he feel belittled and irritated? Now that Will was at boarding school, and my workload was increasing, our views of each other were distant, cloudy. The weekly football matches were no longer in Central London. They were an hour’s drive down the motorway, a journey I could not afford to take. I missed sharing chocolate bars with him when the games master wasn’t looking our way.

About twenty minutes later Will came into the kitchen wearing a fresh pair of jeans; his hair was combed and his face was washed. He took some towels into the laundry room and stuffed some scraps of paper in the rubbish bin. I was drinking coffee and sifting through the post. There were many Christmas cards. I put down my letter opener. Will stood in front of me.

‘I slipped, when I was getting off the bus. Those doors close too quickly.’ I was surprised he proffered an explanation. ‘There’s no tube near Rory’s house.’

‘Rory?’

‘New guy in the room next to mine.’

‘That was a pretty rough fall.’ Maybe he had been pushed or shoved in a jocular spirit and the blotches marked humiliation? ‘How about some toast, jam, hot chocolate?’

‘No. No thanks. I have to check my emails, call Alex…’

‘You must be hungry. You always were after school.’

‘I’m not at day school. And besides I’m on holiday.’

‘True, true. Any mince pies left?’

‘Yep, in the red biscuit tin. Mum bought some more from that organic shop this morning.’

‘Would you like one?’

‘OK.’ Will helped himself to some apple juice from the fridge. We stood a few feet apart, nibbling at our pies.

‘Your trousers reminded me of a good story I’ve never told you.’

‘Tell me after the service.’

‘But it’s about Mummy. Man’s story. Our story.’

Will raised his shoulders and sighed, then he looked down at his feet as if he was contemplating his next move.

‘We could take the mince pies upstairs to the drawing room,’ I suggested.

‘We could stay here.’

‘It’s more comfortable there. Put your feet up?’

Had Will been perhaps a year older, he wouldn’t have felt a nagging obligation to surrender and appease me. Next year, politeness would easily lose the tug of war.

Upstairs, Will put the biscuit tin and the glass of apple juice on an old magazine lying on the coffee table and slumped backwards against the sofa. He stretched his arms and then rested his hands on his knees. It looked as though he might start tapping on them as if counting time. I sat in the wing chair by the balcony so we could face each other. Our bare tree stood in the corner; its top branches nearly stroked the ceiling. It was a very cold day and there was a draught coming through the French doors. I lit the gas fire, and the fake coals burst into flames.

‘It was just before Easter Sunday,’ I began, ‘when I too stepped or rather fell off the bus and ripped my trousers at the knee. In those days we didn’t have large bendy buses. We travelled on Routemasters - open at the back so one could get off when it looked safe. Whenever I was on my own I jumped at the very last instant possible. I never tired of the dare.

‘This time I missed my footing. I was on my way to work. It was my first day wearing a new pin stripe suit, too. So I felt doubly the fool. Just as I was about to stand up, a young woman, a few feet away, was bending slightly towards me, one of her hands appeared to be caught in motion as if she wasn’t sure if she should help me up. Maybe she was afraid of touching me in case I thought she was being too familiar. She had dark eyes, pools of molten chocolate. They looked worried but not alarmed. They were asking if I was all right. There was the faint hint of a smile on her face.’

‘Is this a long story, Dad?’

‘It’s gripping. I say this on oath.’

Will started to smile and then he reached into the tin for another mince pie. He offered me one after he took a mouthful.

‘Dad, was she, was she pretty? Like Angelina Jolie?’

‘Well, let me think.’

‘Scarlett Johansson?’

‘Undoubtedly. Yes, just as pretty as both of them. Even prettier. Magnificent.’

He grinned and leaned backwards, resting his head in his hands.

‘She had these eyes and exquisitely shaped eyebrows, maybe like Angelina Jolie. And her dark hair was combed away from her broad forehead –her lips were full and wide. She had high cheekbones. Tall. There was no mistaking that even in my humbled position. She had a tanned complexion; her skin looked so moist. I thought of French movie stars, one in particular, Anouk Aimée. I’d just seen her in A Man and A Woman at a festival of old Claude Lelouch films.’

‘You play the music in the car.’

‘That’s right. I remember she was wearing a purple coat and black boots and to me she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. And because of her eyes and the way she offered her hand, I decided she was beautiful inside too. I nodded to her as if to say, I’m fine, thank you. I made a slight brushing off motion with my hand, to add, don’t worry about me. I’d be so ashamed if you did. My clumsiness is best forgotten. She looked hurt, nodded gently and walked away.’

Will sat upright and for a moment I feared he would get up and walk away. I felt as if I was in a play, on press night, praying for a favourable review. I blushed, paused and rubbed my hands together. I felt exposed, self-conscious about talking to Will about my feelings for a beautiful woman. Did he think about loving, falling in love?

I went to the drinks cupboard to pour myself a whisky. Half in jest I raised the glass towards Will.

‘Maybe this time you will have acquired the taste.’

He laughed, stood up to take the glass and almost shuddered after taking a sip in slow motion. ‘Beer’s still better. But I’ll have another go to make sure.’

He took off his trainers and then nestled himself against the armrest of the sofa, swinging his lanky legs up to rest sideways on the seat cushions.

‘Was this girl Mummy?’

I laughed. ‘Be patient.’

‘Mummy’ll be home soon.’

‘OK, OK. So I started walking towards the office. I glanced back to look for the woman. But she was gone. I couldn’t put her out of my mind. I walked home after work from Temple to Fulham, five miles about, so I could be alone, anonymous, and enjoy dwelling on her without any disruption. But I had to forget her.’

‘That’s weird, Dad. Why?’

‘You see, Will, I never told you this but I was engaged to marry someone else at the time.’

‘That’s certainly news. The mysterious Dad of ages.’ Will sat bolt upright and peered at me, as if he wasn’t quite sure who I was.

The room was darkening. The streetlights were on and in their glow one could see snow flurries. The lights of the Christmas trees in windows across the square sparkled. It was chillier than before despite the central heating and the fire. I rose to switch on a few table lights, turn up the flames, and refill my glass. I started to draw the curtains.

‘Leave them, Dad. Then we can see the snow.’ He leaned back, resting his feet sideways on the cushions and briefly massaging his ankles and feet.

‘Her name was Priscilla, Priscilla Dobbs. I’d met her at work. We were both pupils in the same chambers. She was an able, competent young barrister. There were few women trying to be barristers even then. We weren’t shy talking to each other and gently developed a strong sense of camaraderie. She was certainly jolly, an easy person to befriend. And she was stocky and strong; she had no trouble carrying loads of briefs. She moved as if the papers were as light as wrapping paper - fluid steps. Her head seemed a little out of proportion with her body. Her features were doll like; she had frizzy blonde hair.

‘I think she had a crush on me because sometimes her attentiveness was overbearing. I felt like she was always waiting to help me, anticipating a need I might have even before I myself acknowledged it. It could be a document, reference, or where I should get my soles replaced. Sometimes she seemed bossy, haughty; maybe she was trying to convince me she knew best and hence was a most reliable person, a benefit in waiting.’

‘Sounds a little like Alex’s sister, Jess, with me, I mean, a pain.’

‘Ah, so you know the feeling. Sometimes I pitied her. You see, Will, she had a very slight limp. Born that way. Nobody really noticed, but she was very sensitive about it.’

‘Jess doesn’t have a limp, though.’

‘Hmm…well, and she certainly was practical, and when we became an item as one might say, I discovered she was more than practical. She painted the flat – or rather her parents’ London flat - it was in a mansion block overlooking Battersea Park. She said she even didn’t mind doing the ceilings and the cornices and the rose in the middle. She could do some basic plumbing – change taps and sort out an overflowing loo. She’d save any remaining wine and the supper party leftovers on the plates, such as the meat on a pork chop or vegetables, and make a soup or stew.’

‘Yuck.’

‘Well, maybe, yuck. But she loved walking in the country, like me. We used to walk a lot near Shere in Surrey where her parents lived and then have tea with them.’

‘Mum loves walking.’

‘Oh, yes, she’s a great walker. Well, anyway, she proposed to me.’

‘Mummy?’

‘No, no. Priscilla.’

‘But would you have..?’

‘Probably. But she popped the question before I felt the urge. She said it was leap year and it was.’

‘So, you said yes, like on the spot or what?’

‘Well, I was surprised. But I didn’t want to hurt her feelings and say I’d think about it. Her parents were over the moon when we told them.’

Will swung his legs round to rest them on the floor and sat up. ‘Did you really, really love her?’ I felt as if I was in the witness box.

‘I suppose my love for her was almost the kind two people share once the passion has faded, yet they’re still great friends, comfortable with and away from each other. I was attracted to her; yes, I was. She had a strange attraction. I know lots of couples like this.’

‘Like who?’

‘I’ll tell you another time.’

‘OK, back to old hop along Cilla.’

‘I was desperate to put the woman in purple out of my mind, crazy with the fear that she’d haunt me forever and this would hurt my relations with Priscilla. I’d be living a secret life.’

‘Like a spy.’

‘Maybe. I was scared that when I lifted the veil I wouldn’t see her face but the face of the woman offering her hand. I began to dread seeing Priscilla. It was at this time, too, that there was talk that I might help one of the QCs with a case in Manchester and I’d have to spend quite a lot of time in the North. I prayed I’d be chosen. I felt like going along to the clerk and begging.’

‘How long before the big day?’

‘About three months, first Saturday in October. Apparently in Greece there’s the superstition that setting a date in a leap year is bad luck for a marriage.’

‘The purple woman must have been a warning!’

‘Possibly. I guess that Priscilla sensed my uneasiness. One evening when we were eating take out pizza at her flat she said, “You don’t have to marry me, you know.’’ ’

‘Wow. That stings.’

‘You could think that. But she was just saying this so I’d reassure her; I’m sure. But I couldn’t bring myself to do that; you could say I exploited her call for reassurance to my own advantage. I used the moment to admit defeat.

‘ “I know,” I said. “Oh, Priscilla, I’m so sorry, I really am. I can’t - ” Yes, that’s just what I said.’

‘God.’

‘Yes, God. God wouldn’t have been pleased. “Am I not good enough?” she replied. “I’m a cripple.” ’

‘Dad, she wasn’t that crippled. Just trying to make you feel bad.’

‘I guess one has to understand it from her point of view. Well, actually, Will, the truth is that what she said made me very angry. It was as if she was accusing me of breaking off our engagement because I was ashamed to spend my life with a woman who was disabled. She was using my sense of morality to bind me to her; that made me really cross. Then she asked me if there was someone else.’

‘Mummy!’

‘Hold on! Yes, the woman in purple made me realise the hollowness of my feelings, my affection. But of course I said no. I bumbled on…I just needed time, time alone, etcetera and… ’

‘Etcetera. Maybe I’d do that, Dad. I don’t know. What about work?’ Will lay back down on his side again with his arm propped up against his ear.

‘I did the Manchester case. It was a long public inquiry – several months. I had to leave the following week. So we didn’t have to be together at work. She typed me a letter asking me to undo all the arrangements and she returned the ring. I put an announcement in The Times. I did all that had to be done.’

‘Did you sell the ring? The one Alex’s brother bought for his girlfriend cost a bomb.’

‘I thought I’d sell it back to Ansell’s and give the money to charity. I went to the jeweller one Saturday, close to Christmas, in fact; I was still in Manchester during the week. Richard, the owner, was very understanding. He knew our family well; Granny, Grandpa, uncles, aunts - his father had known my grandparents. Ansell’s had sold us many rings. I told him the truth and my intention. He said that what I wanted to do wasn’t uncommon in these situations. I didn’t feel guilty talking to him. He gave me back the price I paid less the VAT. I gave the money to a charity for homeless women.’

‘I think I went to Ansell’s once when I was little; Mummy was having something repaired.’

‘Probably, near the Royal Academy. Now, listen, just when I stepped outside Ansell’s I saw her walking past, quite quickly.’

‘Priscilla?’

‘Patient! She was walking northwards out of Burlington Arcade, wearing the purple coat. She turned right. I wanted to follow her but not get too close so she wouldn’t get suspicious and try to avoid me. So she went past what was then the Museum of Mankind and now is part of the Academy – bet you didn’t know that – and then went into…yes, I think it’s Vigo Street. It was nearly lunchtime. I had to slow down and look in a print shop window so that I wouldn’t find myself by her side. I stayed close but behind. Anyway, she went into a café and sat down, on the outside end, at a table for four. Two men were sitting by the wall side. It was good that it was crowded or else I wouldn’t have been bold enough to sit at the same table even though there was a space opposite her. So I thought, well, if I sit facing her this would seem reasonable, as there are practically no seats left. The windows were steamed up; it was warm inside but sub zero outside.

‘ “May I”, I said. “There doesn’t seem to be much space.” Then she said, “Of course, please.” ’

‘She could’ve been married.’

‘Fortunately, that didn’t enter into my dreams!’

‘Then you would’ve been scared sh - you know what I mean.’

‘Well, she wasn’t anyway. Oh, Will, I remember wanting so much to say something incredibly brilliant that would make a wonderful impression, win the Nobel Prize for great opening lines. I felt as if I had no teeth, no tongue, no vocal chords. I hoped she’d order something that would take a very long time to eat.’

‘So what did you say?’ Will stood up and addressed the coffee table. ‘Hello, allow me to introduce myself.’ Then he bowed and pretended to take off a hat. His voice was deep and sonorous. ‘I am Prince Charming, the man of your wildest, most wondrous dreams. How pleased I am to make your acquaintance, my good lady.’ He chuckled and then sat down and punched the air.

‘I wouldn’t have had such nerve! I noticed a catalogue she was looking at; I could just make out the title, The St. Ives Group - a group of artists who lived and worked in Cornwall in the 1930s. She saw that I was staring at her catalogue. She smiled and said, “I love these artists, my favourite.” She was doing her art history degree at the time.’

‘She said the line. Lucky, lucky you.’

‘You could think of it that way. She was going to the exhibition, on Cork Street, around the corner.’

‘So you wheedled your way to go with her!’

I blushed.

‘What did you order – to eat? Bet you don’t remember that!’

‘Omelettes. Mushroom.’

‘Girls always like omelettes, especially cheese. And Diet Coke.’

‘You may just have a point.’ We chuckled together.

‘Did that creepy girl, the handyman, ever marry?’

‘No, never. She left the Bar not long after we broke off the engagement and went to work as in-house counsel, for an oil company, I think.’

‘Do you think you’d have married her anyway?’

‘I don’t know. I really don’t know.’

‘But, Dad, I wouldn’t be here then. Here with you in the drawing room, hearing the story; you, me, eating the pies, with the tree.’

‘No, no, you wouldn’t be. Perhaps it’s meant to be, these unexpected things, part of some grand plan.’

‘Maybe, I don’t know. The girl in the café, Dad, she was Mum?’

‘Yes, but it’s strange; Mummy doesn’t remember ever having come across a man who’d tripped while getting off a bus.’

‘It’s a miracle you fell though. Eerie.’

We sat in silence, enjoying the soothing stillness of the night, and the warmth of the room, our closeness.

‘Dad.’

‘Tell me.’

‘You know I said I was pushed? Well, the truth is Rory and Jack were…’

‘It’s OK, Will. You don’t have to tell me, unless you want to that is.’

‘But Dad I’m happy. Happy you didn’t marry that girl and that I’m here, and it’s snowing.’

The End