Chapter Nineteen – Wednesday
Morning favourite husband. Just so you know I’m thinking about you when you wake up xxxxxx
Blimey, you’re up early. xxxxxxx
Says you. What’s got you up at this hour?
Can’t sleep properly without you. Feels like you’ve been away for about a million years
So how will you manage when you’re off on a mega-tour of the world?
You’ll come with me of course :)
How about you? Why are you up so early?
I’ve been awake most of the night. More accurately, I’ve been half awake most of the night, that uneasy hyper-vigilant state where even though I’m nominally at rest (lying down, eyes closed, body immobile), I’m alert for the smallest sign of danger. There is an ogre living downstairs, and he could creep into our home at any time.
Thought I’d get an early start. If I get a wriggle on we might be on our way home on Saturday
Oh my God that’s such good news. Can’t wait to see you. I’ll buy steak so we can celebrate
Hang on don’t buy anything yet, I only said might. Depends if I can get the house clearer sorted.
I thought you’d booked that ages ago
Did I say this? I might well have.
I found one but he suddenly couldn’t do it for three weeks. New one looks good though. Just need to sort that out, pick the estate agent, last bits of paperwork with the bank and we’re there
You keep saying that but you’re still not here. Can’t you hand everything over to the estate agent and let them do it?
Of course I can’t
I bet you could, there must be a way. People die all the time and their relatives don’t end up living in other places for days on end sorting everything out. You’re super-efficient, surely you ought to have it all sorted out by now. Stop messing about and come back home to me :)
That’s a horrible thing to say. You can’t put a smiley face on the end of it and pretend it’s a joke. I don’t actually want to be stuck here you know
I’m starting to think you do
You know that’s not true
No I don’t. Not when you’re not here. Come home to me soon Jen. I miss you and I miss Marianne and I want you back here where you belong. Promise me you’ll get on the train on Saturday no matter what happens
I can’t promise, you know I can’t
But I’ll do my best
Please. Or I’ll have to come and get you :)
I put my phone back under my pillow and lie down. The sharp point of a feather scratches my cheek. I fumble for it, pull it out then turn onto my side.
James Moon is charming, I’ll give him that. He’d begun to slip under my defences, begun to convince me that beneath the crusty-old-man performance there was a worthwhile human being. But I of all people should know that charming isn’t the same as a good person. My notebook’s on the nightstand. I open it up and look again at Lily’s true and accurate record. When did this happen? Was this during my lifetime? Marianne said James remembered me as a child, but he and Lily weren’t friends then because his wife was still alive. Please stop, I’m sorry. Burn mark on arm – I believe from the iron. Did he beat her while I slept obliviously above him?
Maybe she got away before she died. Tomorrow I will bake a cake, I think. Maybe that’s what Lily did; she helped James’s wife escape. Battered women are notorious for standing by their terrible husbands, but Lily could talk anyone into anything. She would have gained admittance with a cake, and from that built a friendship, weaving her slow subtle magic, filling James Moon’s wife with the strength and power she needed to finally break free. Maybe Mrs Moon’s death is a fiction, and she’s living somewhere else, gloriously free.
Or perhaps James simply beat her to death one night, then passed off her injuries as a fall down the stairs.
It must take effort and strength to kill another human being, but James would be strong enough. I think about how small the cat looked when he held it, how easily he lifted my bag of potatoes, how effortlessly his arms cut through the water as he swam with Marianne. So strong still, even though he’s old. But then if he did that, how could Lily and he have become…?
My bed’s too hot and I can’t get comfortable. I close my eyes and try to sleep, but I can’t make it happen. Thank God I took the key back from him on that first day. But perhaps it wasn’t the only one he had. Perhaps he had a copy. Perhaps he’s been back in here while Marianne and I have been out. Did I remember to lock the door and put the chain on last night? I must have remembered. I always remember. Except that first morning when I didn’t. Maybe I did that again. I’d better check, just in case.
I crawl out from the tangle of sheets and blankets. Marianne’s bedroom door is shut, so I can’t peek in. I could open the door, but if I wake her, she’ll feel compelled to get up too, and then we’ll both be awake at a stupidly early hour. Besides, I’m clutching Lily’s true and accurate record in one hand, and I don’t want Marianne to see it and ask questions.
The chain’s on the door, as I knew it would be. Still holding the true and accurate record, I take the chain off to make sure. Then I turn the heavy key in the lock. I’d remembered that too. Now it’s time for me to put everything back the way it was, but it seems I’m not going to do that. I open the door and glide into the corridor.
The tabby cat that used to be Lily’s is pacing up and down the hallway. When she sees me, her tail goes up and her little mouth opens to expose the ridged pink mouth and needly teeth. I reach down to pet her. She wipes her cheek against my finger, lets me stroke her once from head to tail, then dances off down the stairs, her tail still sticking straight up like a signal. Come with me.
I’m wearing one of Lily’s rings again. This time my sleeping self has chosen the inky square-cut sapphire framed with diamonds. The soft cotton of Lily’s nightgown is cool and comforting against my skin. I wonder if the cat understands that Lily and I are two different people, or if she thinks Lily has somehow come back to her and is following her downstairs to join her in her new home.
At James Moon’s front door, she pauses to stretch luxuriously on the doormat. Her toes splay out as she digs her claws deep into the rough fibres so she can properly unkink her spine. Then she looks expectantly at the door. She wants me to get it open, but I don’t have to do what the cat wants. I could go back upstairs and no one would know I’d been here. The cat presses against my calf, letting me feel the vital warm vibration of her impatient purr. There’s a lovely old brass doorknocker shaped like a lion with a ring in its mouth. It must weigh a lot. I slide my fingers around the thick brass ring and lift it experimentally, and then drop it again as the cat stretches imploringly up my leg and puts out her claws.
Well, that’s done it. I could pick up my skirts and run for it, but I don’t feel like running. I feel like waiting on the doorstep and picking up the cat with my free hand. She opens her mouth again when my hands go around her middle, but then resigns herself. Not all cats tolerate being picked up, but this one’s more willing than most. Her pretty white bib is soft against my forearm and she stretches up her muzzle to give me a soft whiskery kiss on the underneath of my chin. Then she looks expectantly at the door. I take a deep breath and kiss the top of the cat’s head for courage. James Moon opens his front door.
I see my resemblance to Lily reflected in his face, a combination of terror and delight that shakes my heart a little and makes me wonder if perhaps I’m wrong. Then he realises it’s only me, the annoying woman from upstairs, and he rolls his eyes.
“What do you want? It’s too early.” He holds his arms out. “And I’ll have my cat back as well, thank you.”
“How can it be too early when you’re dressed?” I demand, not surrendering the cat.
“I’m dressed. You’re not. What’s the matter with you? Coming out in your nightclothes like that. No sense of decency. Come back here, you little beast,” he adds, addressing the cat with an outstretched finger. The cat t
ouches her nose to him politely. Then she gives a neat little wriggle and jumps out of my arms, her body flowing in a smooth elegant curve. James bends stiffly so he can give in to her impetuous demands that he pet her. His gaze falls on the true and accurate record. His hand stops halfway down the cat’s stripy back. After a minute he straightens up and looks at me wearily and I know from the resigned expression in his eyes that there’s no mistake. He recognises what he’s done.
His lips move as he mutters something, to me or to himself, I can’t tell and I don’t feel like asking. I look back at him and wait to see what happens next.
“Are you going to answer me, then?”
“I didn’t hear what you said. Speak more clearly.”
“I said, what did you expect? Told you not to go through all her things. Couldn’t let it alone though, could you? Not surprising. You’ve been through everything else of hers. Couldn’t even keep your hands off her clothes. It’s your own stupid fault if you find out things you wish you hadn’t.” He goes back inside, but the front door remains open. I wonder whether it’s wise or even safe to follow him, but then the cat pops back out for a minute and gives me such an incredulous stare that I find myself following it down the narrow entrance hall. James Moon is very tall and upright and his body blocks all the light.
In the sitting room, he points towards one of the chairs. I sit down in it, wondering if this is where Lily sat in her time. His face has that expression again, the one that tells me he’s both thrilled and haunted by my resemblance to the woman he loved. I grit my teeth and remind myself that love, like money, never made anyone a better person.
“Suppose you want to hear all about it,” he says. “Haven’t got the sense to let sleeping dogs lie. Well, just you remember, she’s dead now, all right? She’s dead and gone and there’s nothing to be done. Want some tea or something? I don’t have coffee. Never liked it.”
“How dare you?”
“Not have coffee?” He looked genuinely confused.
“You make me sick. How dare you be so smug about it? I can hear them through the floor. That’s what she said. How long did it go on for? How often?”
He shakes his head wearily. “Wasn’t anyone’s fault. It was the drink, you see. Terrible thing when it gets hold of you. If it wasn’t for the drink we’d have got on well enough. Got worse when the boys grew up and we moved here. Thought we might be better with a smaller place. Less to worry about. Now you know why I don’t—” He sees me looking at him, and his face turns an ugly shade of brick red. “Don’t know why I’m explaining. Not your business, is it? It was a long time ago.”
“So?”
“So you don’t know what it was like. Different time.”
“Oh, right. A time when it was okay for a man to beat his wife.” The blankly innocent look on his face infuriates me. “Did she know you were sneaking upstairs to see Lily? Were you lovers while she was still alive? Did you kill her so you could be with Lily all the time?”
“Good God, I didn’t… She wasn’t well, all right? She died in hospital. Doctor came and everything.”
“Shut up. I don’t want to hear another word from you. I can’t believe I let you talk to Marianne. Don’t you dare come near her again, you hear me?”
That makes him flinch. What a strange and tender monster he is, this man my grandmother loved.
“And I’ll tell you something else,” I say. “Before we go, do you know what I’m going to do? I’m going to call the estate agent and tell them I want to rent out Lily’s flat to students. I’m going to convert her bedroom to two smaller rooms, and put in a new bathroom with a decent shower, and then I’ll find the dirtiest, skankiest, druggiest, noisiest students in the whole damn town. I’ll give them a killer deal on the rent. I’ll tell them they can have as many parties as they like. I’ll fill the fridge with beer as a welcome present. I’ll buy a bag of weed and leave it in the kitchen. I’ll leave all her china for them to smash.”
“No. Don’t. Not for me, but for her. She’d have—”
“I know. She’d hate it. That’s why I’m going to do it. I’ll show both of you. I’ll buy them a firepit. I’ll tell them they can have barbecues in the garden. I’ll tell them I’ll give them a discount on their rent if they’ll redecorate. I’ll tell them they can stay for the summer without paying. And I’ll keep doing that every year until the whole place is ruined and you’ve either moved out or died from all the disruption. I think that ought to make up for it, don’t you? About time you had to listen to something unbearable through the floorboards.” James flinches. I refuse to let myself feel bad. From his table of photographs, Lily’s face beams up at me. Lily’s face, and someone else’s. “And where the hell did you get that?”
“What are you talking about now?”
“That baby picture of Marianne. Did you steal it from Lily? Why did you want it?”
“But… but that’s… yes. You’re right. I stole it. Souvenir. Stupid thing to do. Don’t know what I was thinking. Let me keep it. Something to remember them both by. Please.” His hand reaches out for the photograph. I move it out of reach. “I admit it. Admit everything. Now give it back and get out. Put it down. Please, Jen, I’m begging you to put that photograph down and stop rummaging and go away!”
I think he keeps talking, but I don’t have time to listen any more. The baby in the photograph looks exactly like Marianne, but she’s wearing an outfit I never put her in: a little blue knitted cardigan and a matching blue bonnet. The photo has a yellowish cast that tells me it’s old, and when I look more closely I can see the white border at the edge of the print. The baby in the picture is a boy, not a girl, and the table is covered with photographs of him as he grows. There he is as a chubby toddler, fat stumpy legs and cheerful smile, the resemblance to Marianne shrinking now but still visible in the shape of his chin and the curl of his hair. A sturdy boy sitting in a deep hole on the beach, his skin the golden olive that Marianne turns in the summer. A lanky teenager, shy and surly, offering as little of himself to the camera as possible. I nearly recognise him now, although I don’t want to. For thirteen years I’ve lived with a comforting uncertainty, and I don’t want the mystery put to rest.
And there he is, looking like a boy to me now although at the time we’d have said we were adults. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark skin. Spanish-looking, the way so many of the Cornish are. James’s hand is slamming down the photograph as he did once before, only this time it’s too late, I’ve seen what he didn’t want me to see. He knew before I did. He tried to hide it from me. Why? I’ve threatened him with everything I have, I’ve told him exactly how I’m going to ruin his life, but his expression as he looks into my eyes is one of guilty tenderness.
“How did you—”
“Suspected as soon as I saw her. Looks exactly like him at that age. Well, like a girl version of him. Bit of you in there too, obviously.”
I can’t think of a thing to say.
“Thought I was going mad. Imagining things. Never even met you, as far as I knew. Then I remembered. That summer. Summer your father… you know. You were both down for a visit. Lily wanted to introduce you. Told her not to interfere. She said sometimes you had to. Thought I’d talked her out of it. Then I caught her stealing his hairbrush.”
“He said he was staying with his granddad. That was you? You’re Marianne’s—”
He touches my cheek with a thick, clumsy finger. “He’s out in New Zealand. Got married to a local girl. Got a baby on the way. He’ll never find out. Not from me, anyway. Forget you ever saw anything. Don’t cry. Not worth it. All a long time ago now. Her dad’s her dad. Not just about genes.”
“Don’t talk to me. Don’t look at me. Just… leave me alone.”
He puts a hand on my shoulder to try and make me stay, but I shrug him off. Then I scurry out through the hallway, falling over the cat as I go, and race back up the stairs to the sanctuary of Lily’s house, where Marianne still sleeps peacefully, not suspecting that the man who
lives downstairs now has the key to the secret that could shatter our lives.
Chapter Twenty – Lily
I’m here at Lily’s house, and in the slow lazy rhythm of late mornings and steep hills and clean sunshine, it’s slowly dawning on me that I may have left my boyfriend. I keep this thought at the back of my brain and examine it in small glimpses, wondering when I might be ready to bring it into the light and look right into its ugly face.
If and when I finally find the courage to admit this, everything about my life – present and future – will have to change. So I put it off, hour by hour and day by day, and for a lot of the time I can pretend there’s nothing wrong at all. I’m free, in the haven of my childhood. Lily presses me to go out into the fresh air. I visit the sea and find it’s the same as it always is. My dreams are fragmented and meaningless.
My time here feels limitless, but in fact I have only a week. When I wake each morning, my sense of well-being dissolves into the knowledge that I have one day fewer to hide from choosing. In the fresh green morning sunlight I can withstand the letters from Daniel appearing on the doormat, but by mid-afternoon my strength is failing and I have to hide in my room and pretend to nap. When I cry, I muffle my face in my pillow. I don’t want anyone with me as I grieve, not even Lily. I can’t yet bear to admit that she was right.
Then I fall asleep, and dream I’m standing at my parents’ kitchen sink, watching my father walk down the garden path in the rain; and it’s afternoon, and then evening, and it feels like a new day.
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