The Man I Married

by Elena Wilkes

  ‘“Stuff” concerning a bloke?’ She cocked an eyebrow trying to manoeuvre me into spilling.

  ‘“Stuff” concerning my mother.’ I knew she’d feel slapped down by that remark but I didn’t apologise. Not this time.

  ‘I could come with you?’ she offered. She was trying to make amends for being sharp with me earlier, I knew that, but part of me just didn’t want to fall right back in to being a pushover. ‘We could have lunch, and then get the train back to London straight after.’

  I put my hand on my bag, suddenly desperate to look at my phone. ‘No, honestly. That’s sweet of you but it’s going to be awful enough. I’ll just see you at the station. Twenty past two isn’t it?’ I leaned forward and kissed her cheek and she gave me a little squeeze on the arm in return. ‘See you later.’

  I watched her retreating back as the lift doors closed behind her. I felt bad leaving it like this. I honestly did want to make it up with her. This was the first time in our friendship I hadn’t been totally truthful. I bit my lip; this had all got out of hand. It was silly: I knew how much I loved her company, I valued her. It was stupid to shut her out. I made a decision: when I saw her again, I’d tell her everything. My hand went to my bag again. I guessed who the message would be from. I was right.

  Not even a note? What happened? Are you okay?

  I snorted a laugh. The gall of it! Yet something in me was pleased he was bothered. A quiet anger stirred nevertheless. I wasn’t going to give him any more of me: there would be no reply, no acknowledgement, no nothing. I’d turn my humiliation into silence. At least I’d have the dignity of that.

  Checking the time, I did what I’d been putting off: dialling my sister’s number, sighing as I listened to the phone ring out. Maybe she wouldn’t answer?

  ‘My God! It’s really you?’

  No such luck.

  ‘I’m in York. I was thinking of coming over to see Mam.’

  ‘Right.’ I could tell by the way she said that one word, she clearly wasn’t going to make it easy for me.

  ‘Well, I suppose you’d better come then.’

  ‘Fine.’ I said, in the way only sisters can.

  She put the phone down quicker than I could end the call. It was her little victory and we both knew it. All I had to do was keep rolling over, bowing my head, giving her the victories and taking my punishment. She was a past master at it: never saying what she really thought, never overtly confrontational, just the quiet drip-drip of pressure like a kind of nerve gas sucking the life out of you. That was my family’s party piece. It could have been our motto: It’s never the things we actually say, it’s always the things we don’t.

  * * *

  The cab journey to Clifton took me along roads that were scarily too familiar. Nothing had changed and yet everything looked different. It was like being in a strangely disturbing nightmare: images past and present, awkwardly superimposed themselves one over another. I was thirty-four and yet somehow still a child, the past, fresh and poised and freeze-framed, had been just waiting to run by me again like a flick-book cartoon.

  ‘Actually, you can drop me here please.’

  The last thing I wanted was to rock up in a taxi. Lou would definitely add that to her inventory of me being ‘fancy’.

  I paid the driver, included a generous tip, and looked around me. It all seemed different suddenly; the engine sounds faded into the harsh clatter of crows overhead. They swooped from the power lines, appearing and disappearing like ragged black flags behind the roof lines. I walked up the street of terraced houses, my feet treading on pavement cracks and fissures; each one taking me straight back to being six years old, creating dot-to-dot pictures: the head of a wolf, the elephant with his raised trunk; all so familiar, my stomach clenching as all the other memories flooded back.

  The higgledy-piggledy windows stared out at me accusingly, some incongruously plastic and modern now, some still with their original sashes, mostly nylon netted and blank, giving no idea of what might be behind them.

  I looked up, knowing precisely what was behind the window of number 76 with the green front door, the sound of my heels announcing my arrival as I steeled myself.

  The door was flung open.

  ‘Come in if you’re coming.’ Lou stood there. She’d lost weight and her cardigan hung loosely around her thin shoulders. I suddenly saw how old she looked.

  ‘How are you?’ I smiled and leaned forward for a kiss.

  ‘Okay, I suppose.’ She returned it, stiffly.

  ‘How’s Mam?’

  I heard the television booming away in the background. ‘As ever,’ she shrugged. She walked ahead down the narrow hallway of my childhood. The smell of it hadn’t changed, or the pictures: the 1980s photographs, bleached into garish yellow. Me as a baby, leaning awkwardly against the far-flung arm of my six-year-old sister – clearly dumped there under protest. Nothing had changed.

  ‘Hello Mam!’ I said loudly before I’d even seen her.

  I knew where she’d be: in that room with the fake swirling gas fire and the flock wallpaper. I saw the winged back of the chair pulled up close to an appallingly loud TV with some soap opera bawling out, a pouffe under her feet, and her arms wrapped tightly around herself as she leaned forward, peering unseeing at the screen.

  ‘Hello Mam!’ I said again, crouching into her sightline.

  I saw her blink at my voice.

  ‘How are you?’ I shouted.

  She turned her face towards me and I felt the shock, as I always felt it; there was her face, my mother’s face, a beautiful woman still, the nose, the mouth, the cheeks, the skin – I always had beautiful skin she told me. Peaches and cream. Still not old… not really – but the eyes. The eyes had become not hers. The disease, this terrible disease had slowly robbed her of all her memories – Not only her own life, but ours too. The light in her eyes had gone and left a stranger in her place. My mother, with her impostor’s eyes, just wasn’t there anymore.

  ‘Are you from the Social?’ My mother didn’t speak like that. Those weren’t the kind of words she used.

  ‘It’s Lucy,’ my sister interjected. ‘Remember Lucy?’ The theme tune to the soap opera blared over the question.

  ‘I’m your daughter, Mam! You know me, don’t you?’

  ‘Is the news on next?’ Her stranger’s voice rasped harshly. She looked up quizzically at Louise.

  ‘Yes, it’s on in a minute, Mam.’ She gave me a look and shook her head.

  ‘See what you’re missing not living up here?… Let’s turn this down, I can’t stand it.’

  ‘That’s someone’s daughter, there, look.’ Mam pointed a shaking finger. A picture of a little girl with blonde hair came up on the screen. ‘I think that’s Grant Mitchell’s. He had a thing with that Liz McDonald in the Rover’s Return.’

  Lou and I both frowned at the mix-up and then caught each other’s eye as we laughed. The tension between us lifted. ‘That’s the news, Mam,’ Lou said patiently. ‘That’s real life… Although EastEnders and real life are getting more similar by the day,’ she muttered under her breath. For a split second we were sisters again.

  ‘Has she gone somewhere?’ Mam looked round and past me as though I wasn’t there. ‘I think she’s disappeared.’

  I tried not to mind. I got up stiffly and patted her on the arm.

  ‘Do you want to stay for a cup of tea?’ Lou was trying now. ‘We have one about this time.’

  ‘Go on then.’

  I was waiting for the veiled accusations I knew must be coming. The fact Lou was being nice made it even more unnerving.

  Lou turned to walk out of the door and I was desperate to follow her – anything to not sit in this room with an old woman who wasn’t my mother. It was purgatory, but something I had to endure. I sat, feeling totally alone, staring at the side of my mother’s face, the slack hanging jowls, the mouth slightly open as she gazed sightlessly at the TV screen, praying my sister would hurry up and bring the kind of tea that I kne
w was coming. It would be one of those brown glass mugs with the too-small handle, the sight of which would take me back thirty years.

  She appeared in the doorway carrying a tray and set it down on a small side table with a crocheted fancy cover I hadn’t seen before.

  ‘Is that new?’

  She looked up at me quickly and then away again as she busied herself with the tea things. ‘No. It was Nan’s. I thought Mam would like it when I cleared the house.’

  A whole raft of unspoken accusation lay in that simple statement. I hadn’t come up for my grandmother’s funeral; I’d made some excuse about work. I hadn’t helped with the house clearance. I was the selfish cow who’d swanned off. But in reality it was too soon after Dan. I drank the scalding tea as fast as humanly possible, feeling the roof of my mouth blister. I deserved it.

  We made pointless and ridiculous conversation for twenty minutes, me watching the clock.

  ‘The traffic was terrible getting here,’ I lied, putting the cup down. ‘I have to catch my train. I daren’t miss it.’

  ‘Of course not.’ Lou nodded. She wasn’t fooled, I could see it in her face. I felt worse than I had before. ‘I’ll walk you to the door.’

  I knew every thread of wear on the carpet. I knew the shape of each scuff mark on the walls: those years of us all brushing past, leaving our stain. I could feel that house clutching at me, trawling me back in, and I could sense the old me: the child inside, and the new me, colliding and unravelling.

  I turned to Lou to say goodbye.

  ‘You’ve changed,’ she said, matter-of-factly.

  The lump in my throat hardened. I couldn’t answer her for a second, I could only nod.

  ‘I’m sorry… I’ll keep in touch more… I’ll ring you,’ I said finally. ‘I promise.’

  She bent forward from the step, her hands landing on my shoulders, and kissed me gently on the forehead. ‘I don’t blame you.’ She pulled back and looked directly into my eyes. ‘You got out. You were good at school. You managed it. Mark did too – he had to go to the other side of the world to get away from Dad, but we all knew it wasn’t just Dad, it was her as much as him—’ She gave a painful glance over her shoulder. ‘So don’t feel bad, Luce. Feel free. Go and live a life for both of us. Go and live the life I could never have.’ She retreated back into that appalling hallway and I saw her face crumpling in the gap as she quickly closed the door.

  I stood for a few moments staring at the bubbled and peeling paint, the layered colours of my childhood, one under the other, under the other – skimming like a stone of memory on the surface of a pond: back and back and back to being six again, standing right here, on this spot, terrified of going in. Terrified of him. Of her. Of the two of them together.

  I turned around and walked, the shock of her words thudding with each step.

  I wasn’t really thinking about where I was going.

  My sister. It could have so easily been the other way around: me living her life and she living mine. But instead, she’d stayed and I’d left the dreadfulness for her to deal with.

  ‘He’s such a lovely man, your Derek,’ the neighbours always said to my mother. ‘You’ve got a good one there.’ She only ever smiled back at them and said nothing. The brooding silence of it. His moods we could never speak about: the darkness of them, the atmosphere as real and as solid as a thing breathing shallowly in the corner of the room. The acute awareness of his jawline flexing, the way he moved his feet, agitated, getting angry – over what? Something? Nothing? Was there a difference? The silence of unspoken violence that might erupt at any second. The silence of her who said nothing to stop him, either during or after. We were all children together: powerless and afraid. She said nothing, so we said nothing. We endured: sacrificing our self esteem, our self confidence, just wanting it to stop. And no one ever said one word about it, until now.

  My sister. My sister Lou. The weight of the guilt pressed heavy on my shoulders; I was a fraud in every sense, and a selfish fraud at that. How could I leave her?

  I pulled my phone from my bag and thought about ringing her now. ‘Pack your bags,’ I’d say to her. ‘Come with me. We’ll find somewhere for Mam. It’s not too late. You can’t live the rest of your life like this.’ But knowing all the time what she would say – that ‘it was too late,’ and she’d ‘made her choices.’ But I had to try at least to persuade her, didn’t I? The screen lit up.

  ‘Lou?’

  ‘Hello,’ Paul said.

  I couldn’t speak.

  ‘Are you still in York?’

  ‘Yes.’ I could hardly get the word out.

  ‘Would you meet me please? I want to talk to you.’

  I swallowed.

  ‘Are you still there?’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  ‘You’re upset. I can hear it. Can you tell me what you’re upset about?’

  The tears pricked painfully behind my eyes. I was scared at what my voice would do if I answered.

  ‘Is it your mum?’

  ‘Partly,’ I managed.

  ‘Is it me?’

  ‘Partly… Definitely’ My anger bubbled.

  ‘Then let me come and get you.’

  A whole raft of conflicting emotions ran right through me, one after the other, none of which were good.

  ‘I know this seems too soon…’ there was the quiet slick of him swallowing. ‘I know this must feel mad, but…’ he actually sounded nervous. ‘I really felt some deep connection with you last night. I don’t know what it was, and I don’t know if you were aware of it too?’

  I couldn’t speak. The gall of him. The absolute bloody front!

  ‘All I’m asking is that you talk to me. Would you do that? I’ve clearly upset you in some way, and that’s the last thing I would ever want to do.’

  My silence lay like a stone. I should tell the bastard that I saw his phone. Confront him. Watch the look on his face.

  ‘So would you?’

  ‘Okay. Why not?’ I was suddenly in control. I glanced around and gave him a retail park landmark.

  ‘I think I’ve seen that off the main road. Give me a shop to meet you outside and I’ll be quarter of an hour, tops.’

  * * *

  I was hyperaware of him sitting silently in the driver’s seat as he watched me get in.

  ‘Hi,’ he said. He had one elbow resting casually on the door and his hand on the steering wheel.

  ‘You okay?’ His eyes skimmed my face.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘You’re clearly really angry.’ Christ, psychologist speak.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Where did you sneak off to then?’

  ‘Back to my hotel.’

  I was giving him nothing. He dipped his head to gaze through the windscreen, pretending that something had caught his eye. ‘If you don’t want to tell me the real reason, then that’s fine.’

  My hackles rose.

  ‘It’s probably none of my business anyway.’ He stared intently out.

  ‘So who were all the texts from?’ I was surprised how matter-of-fact I sounded.

  ‘Sorry?’ he blinked round.

  ‘The texts. Someone was blowing up your phone all night… Are you married or something?’

  He blinked again, slower this time, and the corner of his mouth twitched. He paused, as though thinking. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I see.’

  We sat looking at each other for a few seconds before he leaned back abruptly in his seat and delved into the front pocket of his jeans.

  ‘This phone?’

  I nodded. Thumbing up the screen, he held it out to me. It was a mass of missed calls and unopened texts.

  ‘You mean that lot.’

  He scrolled quickly through them. ‘This is my work phone. I have two: one work, one personal. One black, one white.’ He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and flashed the white one. ‘These texts are from a patient of mine. This is a woman who is at the peak of a psychotic episode and has been hospitalised. Unf
ortunately, just like some of the staff who work in prisons—’ he eyed me, ‘some hospital staff are not so security-conscious and allow the patients access to phones all bloody night.’ He shook his head. ‘They are the bane of my life.’ He proffered it. ‘Do you want to check them? You’re more than welcome.’ He offered it again.

  My stomach contracted a little. I felt a bit of a twit.

  ‘Maybe I should apologise.’ I couldn’t meet his gaze.

  ‘There is absolutely no need. What else were you supposed to think?’

  ‘Well, I’d like to say it anyway. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I think you already said that in your text, didn’t you?’ He took a look at my face and then prodded my leg playfully.

  ‘Stop it.’ I almost smiled.

  ‘So can we be friends now?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Right. Let’s move on then. So when are you heading back to London?’

  ‘Today. I’ve got to be at the station at about two-ish. Umm… How about you?’ I was cringing inside.

  ‘I’ve got a few bits to tidy up, but I should be back tomorrow sometime.’ He glanced at the clock on the dashboard. ‘How about an early lunch then? Fancy that?’

  ‘God, are you sure? I just feel so—’

  ‘I know a fabulous café-bar. It really buzzes at lunchtime and they do a fantastic range of wine. That do you?’

  ‘That sounds perfect,’ I smiled and then paused. ‘Thank you for being so nice to me. I don’t think I deserve it.’

  ‘Everyone deserves to be happy.’ He turned the engine over and glanced in the rear-view mirror. He laughed and slid me a sideways look. ‘Even you.’

  * * *

  The place was buzzing. Coloured globe lights hung at intervals from the beams giving a warm but jazzy glow. A long wooden bar stretched the length of the room with a television high on the wall. A large group of people were gathered at the end, laughing and joking. He was right; it had a great atmosphere.

  We were perched on stools around a high bar table where we could look out of the wide windows into the busy cobbled street. He had ordered a whole range of tapas-style dishes, each one interesting and unusual: tiny squares of toast with creamy goat’s cheese, chopped broad beans and fresh mint and hot garlicky mushrooms speared with slices of Iberico ham – all utterly delicious. My big goblet of pinotage was rich and warm and slipped down far too easily.