Corduroy Mansions

90. A Major Surprise (Of the Pleasant Variety)

‘You’re going to have to carry on telling me about Colombia over supper,’ Barbara said to Hugh. ‘I can’t wait to hear, but I’m absolutely starving. It’s been that sort of day.’

‘Of course,’ said Hugh. ‘How selfish of me. I’ve been nibbling at things while preparing them. And you’ve been working hard all day.’

She smiled at this. He berated himself for selfishness but he was, in fact, as far as she could make out, completely unselfish. Ever since she had met him - although, admittedly, it was not all that long ago - she had been struck by the fact that what appeared to give him pleasure was doing things for her. He had insisted on carrying her luggage from the car; he had bought her flowers; he had cooked meals. Oedipus had done none of this. He had never even bought her a birthday present.

She looked at Hugh fondly. ‘How did this happen?’ she asked.

‘What? The Colombian thing? I was telling you . . .’

‘No. Not that. This thing between us. How did it happen?’

Hugh shrugged. ‘We met. And . . .’

‘And what?’

‘We hit it off. I thought: here’s the most interesting woman I’ve ever met. And then I thought: she won’t even look at me.’

Barbara was astonished. ‘You thought that I wouldn’t look at you?’ She laughed at the very notion. ‘Do you know that I was thinking exactly the same thing?’

Hugh reached for her hand. ‘We were both wrong. Fortunately. The planets were in alignment.’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘You don’t believe in all that, surely?’

He shook his head. ‘Of course not. Who does?’

‘Nobody I know. But I suppose there are some who do. And I suppose it’s rather reassuring. All sorts of beliefs that we can’t justify or prove may be reassuring.’ She paused. ‘I used to be so arrogant, so sure of myself, that I laughed at people who had what I wrote off as irrational beliefs. Then I realised that we all need something to cling on to. And that it’s not necessarily a bad thing to have beliefs as long, of course, as they aren’t positively harmful.’

He thought about this. ‘I saw an advertisement on a bus yesterday,’ he said. ‘It was an advertisement for atheism. It said, “There’s probably no God.” It made me think.’

Barbara had read about these advertisements but had not herself seen one. ‘I suppose everybody has the right to advertise a viewpoint. Atheists. Religious people. It’s the same right they’re exercising.’

‘Yes,’ said Hugh. ‘But I wondered whether those advertisements were . . . well, were kind. I know that seems an odd word to use here but it’s the word that came to me. Sometimes I think it’s best not to voice doubts about beliefs that mean a great deal to someone else.’

‘Yes,’ Barbara said. ‘I agree. I suppose that being kind to one another includes not saying things you think may be true but which threaten to upset other people unduly. People may need their beliefs. For all I know, in their essence, in the heart of what they say, those beliefs may be expressing something that is very true - something that people really need to help them through life.’

‘Such as?’

‘That we need to love one another. It might be that people need to believe that they are loved by some divine being because they get precious little love on this earth. Would you set out to shatter such a belief?’

Hugh was certain he would not. ‘It would be like . . .’

Barbara took over. ‘Like shooting a dove. Or, as Harper Lee told us, like killing a mockingbird.’

Hugh mulled this over in silence. There was a curious intimacy about the moment, an intimacy that had been promoted by the subject of their discussion. Talking about love, and God, and what people owed to one another had brought them to a point of close spiritual communion that he had never before shared with a lover; it was a stripping away of everything, because one could not conceal anything in such a conversation. It was a conversation about essentials - the sort of conversation that mourners sometimes have after a funeral when for a few moments the reality of death brings people together in mutual appreciation of the simple gift of life.

Hugh looked at his watch. ‘Dinner . . .’

‘Of course.’

He touched her gently on the shoulder. ‘You go and sit down. I’ll bring things through from the kitchen.’

She saw that he had laid the table. There were two candles, yet to be lit, and another arrangement of flowers that she thought he must have bought from the florist’s round the corner. There was a small flower, a small blue flower, on her plate, and she touched it, bruising the petals. She wanted to cry - to cry for sheer happiness.

He brought through the first course - slices of duck on a bed of salad, served with a dark red sauce. He lit the candles and took his seat opposite her, from which position he poured them both a glass of wine. He raised his glass in her direction.

‘To Father Christmas,’ he said.

She smiled. ‘Even if it’s not Christmas.’

‘I know. But he must have such a difficult time. People expect him to give, give, give.’

She tasted the duck. The sauce was slightly tart, which was how she liked it. Suddenly she said without thinking, ‘Don’t go away, Hugh.’

He gave a start. ‘Why do you say that? I never said anything about going away.’

Barbara took a sip of her wine to hide her embarrassment. She had spoken aloud, giving expression, as we sometimes do, to thoughts that she had not intended to reveal. ‘I know you didn’t. Sorry, I wasn’t really thinking.’

Hugh was staring at her. ‘About going away - of course I won’t. And there’s something that I need to say.’

She looked down at the table, at the small blue flower that she had put to the side of her plate.

‘I’d like to marry you,’ he said.