by J. A. Baker
The ground is soft under his feet, wet and slippery after a downpour during the night. He pulls the key out of his pocket and slides it into the lock. It turns, the small door opening a crack, a shaft of low light spreading into the darkness, incrementally illuminating the small space. It’s still dim down there, the door set too low to allow in enough daylight even when fully open. His hand slaps at the wall, his fingers trying to locate the light switch. He misses, slips slightly and stumbles forward into the murkiness, the surface under his feet now dry and hard as he rights himself and looks around.
In the far corner he sees a glint of something, a swift movement then a sensation against his legs that freezes his blood. Hands splayed out, he tries again for the light switch, flicks at it with fumbling fingers and lets out a half laugh, half cry as a cat stands there next to him, its eyes fixed on his before it pushes past and slides out of the door and back into the open. At his feet sits the half-chewed carcass of a mouse, its head missing, its small body littered with scratches where the cat has mauled at it.
The small well built for catching water, which should be almost overflowing, is only half full. The last time he was down here was two days ago. That must have been when the cat made its way in. It has been down here all that time, feeding on mice, drinking rainwater and doing its messy business. He will have to seek out the offending filth and clean it up. He isn’t averse to dirty jobs, it’s the thought that if he doesn’t find anything in the main part of the cellar, he will have to slither his way into the crawl space that runs beneath the front part of the house. Heaving himself through a tiny space on his belly in the dark searching for cat shit wasn’t how he planned on spending his weekend. He has a new book he is looking forward to reading, perhaps even a little light gardening. Maybe even some cooking, but not this. Definitely not this.
Closing the door behind him to stop any more unwanted visitors from slinking their way in, Dominic glances around, hoping to spot anything untoward, anything obvious. He sniffs the air, hoping to catch a scent of anything nasty lurking but all he can smell is dank musty air and perhaps the odd musty whiff of dead mice.
He picks up a torch, aware that the overhead bulb isn’t bright enough to highlight the whole of the cellar, switches it on and blinks as the room is suddenly flooded with a yellow beam of light. He swings the heavy torch around, aiming it in all four corners before trailing it along the edges of the room and across the dusty concrete floor. Nothing. No cat shit. No more dead rodents. Nothing at all.
Striding past his father’s piles of old tools and defunct farming equipment, he drops to his knees and takes a deep breath, bracing himself for what comes next. Crawling into that space is something he did regularly when he was a youngster, when his body was leaner, smaller, his fears less prominent in his mind, but nowadays it makes his guts swirl and his skin pucker with dread.
The gap in the bricks that leads to the crawl space looks smaller than he remembers – smaller and darker and everything beyond the aperture a damn sight more cramped. The thought of having to creep and slither his way through it is bad enough but then what if he gets stuck and can’t turn around? He will have to shuffle his way back out on his belly, using only his hands and his feet to feel his way, never knowing if he is heading in the right direction or whether he will hit a brick wall and end up jammed in there, unable to manoeuvre his way back into the relatively wider space of the cellar.
He lies down, his heart hammering wildly, and shines the torch through, scanning the darkest corners, hoping the offending article is within grabbing distance.
The smell attacks his nostrils, his gag reflex going into overdrive; small curling fronds of foulness reaching down into his throat and curdling his guts. The light lands upon a small pile of excrement over in the farthest corner of the crawl space. Unpalatable images lodge themselves in his head; sliding through to retrieve it and getting jammed in there; or leaving it where it is and allowing it to fester until the smell becomes so bad, rising through the floorboards into the living room, that he is forced to come back down here to clean it up anyway.
There’s little to be gained from leaving it where it is. At some point it will have to be removed. Dominic pokes his head in, propels himself forward and snakes his way through the hole on his stomach, the torch jutting out in front of him, his body writhing and wriggling along the cold concrete. It’s only as he approaches that he realises he has nothing in which to put the damn stuff. With not enough room to turn and reach into his pocket for a tissue or anything he can use to pick it up, he feels helpless. He has been so focused on his fears that he has forgotten about the practicalities. He almost laughs out loud. Forgetfulness, ill-thought out manoeuvres. The story of his life.
Body rigid, he sweeps his arms out wide, hoping to land upon something that will do the job. The elongated arc of light lands upon an array of discarded objects that have been down here for decades – old roof tiles, spare bricks, broken plant pots. Any of those would suffice. He could scoop up the mess and carry it outside.
Shuffling farther forward his fingers brush over what feels like a roll of plastic. He swallows and recoils, removing his hand and sweeping it sideways, the sensation of that old plastic sheeting still attached to his nerve endings, making them shrivel and tingle. He continues feeling, searching, grasping. Within seconds, his fingers touch something soft that doesn’t feel suspiciously like a dead animal. Dragging it closer, he realises that it’s a piece of fabric, one of his mother’s dresses that has been turned into an old rag. He recognises it, grasps it tightly, scrunching the fabric between his fingers and inhaling the scent. Traces of her perfume still lingers, woven deep into the strands, years and years of accumulated oils that have saturated the cotton leaving an indelible mark. He holds it close to his face, the aroma of the material preferable to the stink of cat faeces.
With one swift movement he slides himself forward, rag in hand, and scoops up the pile of shit, a fist clenching at his stomach. He swallows, wriggles back, exiting the same way he entered, feeling his way out as best he can, one hand clutching the torch, the other holding the fabric. His elbows aid his movement, pushing himself backwards. Only when he feels the temperature change, a cooler breeze hitting his feet and legs, does he let out the breath he has been holding in. With one last shove, he pushes himself out of the hole and back into the main part of the cellar, his fingers still curled around the patterned fabric, his panic dissipating, relief ballooning in his chest.
He pulls himself upright and flicks off the torch and the main light. One last glance around then he backs out and shuts the door, locking it and slipping the key into his pocket. The offending article nipped tightly between his thumb and forefinger, Dominic carries it to the back step where he drops it before going into the kitchen to locate a bag.
It takes him just seconds to place the material inside a plastic carrier and tie it up. He drops it in the main bin and stands at the old sink in the ancient lean-to, washing his hands repeatedly. He shudders, feeling contaminated; his skin, his pores, every inch of him reeking of dust and decay and an earthy smell that he can’t seem to shake no matter how hard he scrubs.
Were it not for the well that needs emptying after heavy rainfall, he would seal up the cellar completely, ignoring its vacuous dark presence beneath him. Even as a child he didn’t particularly care for the place, only going down there to assist his father with jobs. It’s a grimy miserable place that holds nothing but bad memories. Turning it into a usable living space was only ever a pipe dream. It’s better left untouched.
Drying his hands, Dominic heads back into the kitchen wishing it was later in the day so he could have a glass of something stronger than coffee. Something that would take his mind off things and obliterate the memories that are bouncing around his brain. They vie for his attention, muscling their way in like the bully boys that they are.
He shuts his eyes, takes a long breath and shakes his head. Not today. Those thoughts and feelings and dark de
sperate recollections can go to hell. Not today. Not any day.
He fills the kettle, makes his coffee and takes it into the living room where the daily papers await him. Today will be a peaceful one. He’ll make sure of it.
10
1st June 1978
Dear Clara,
I thought of you today while I was out on my early morning walk. That doesn’t actually sound quite right, does it? I think of you all the time but what I meant to say was, you were on my mind more than usual. I didn’t sleep too well and had to get out of the house for a while.
Your grandparents are in my thoughts too, please know that and send them my best wishes.
My stomach is folded into a tight knot as I pen this letter, the words too difficult to say but I will do my best. Even as I am writing it, I am finding it hard to stay focused because of what I am about to ask, but ask it I will – my dearest darling Clara, have you fallen out of love with me?
There, I’ve said it. I only hope that as you are reading this, you are smiling and shaking your head, a glassy loving expression in your eyes. I like to think that you have a perfectly valid reason for not replying to my last letter and that my worries are unfounded. A million things have run through my mind, so many excuses as to why you haven’t written to me – the postal service is erratic to the point of being non-existent up there in the back of beyond, the health of your gran has deteriorated to the point she now needs round-the-clock care from you.
And then of course, the final worst scenario that I can hardly bring myself to even think about – you no longer want to be with me. You no longer love me. Actually writing those words feels like a punch to my solar plexus, making me dizzy and robbing me of the ability to breathe properly.
I decided before I set to writing this, that I would pen it with the idea in mind that things haven’t changed between us at all, that we are still the same loving couple parted only by miles but very much still together, our hearts still fused as one. It’s easier that way otherwise it would feel as if I were writing to a stranger and not to you, my dearest Clara, the person who is the other half of me. I couldn’t bear that you may be reading this whilst rolling your eyes and working out a way to tell me that we are over. So I will continue on as if nothing has changed, because for me, it hasn’t. I only pray that you feel the same way.
Yesterday I saw another of your favourite birds and am convinced it’s a sign that you are coming back to me very soon. I was driving home from work and parked up by the field where we took a photograph last year. Do you remember that day, Clara? The time when the entire area looked as if it was flooded with water when it was, in fact, filled with cornflowers? A sea of blue was how you described it. An ocean of beauty. Sitting on the fence next to that field was a bullfinch. I immediately thought of you, my darling, and sat for a while, contemplating our future together. I pictured you in a wedding gown, a delicately stitched white veil covering your beautiful porcelain-like features, the train of your dress trailing behind, everything about you framed to absolute perfection. Is that too presumptuous of me? To want you for my wife? For us to spend the rest of our lives together as loving spouses?
Perhaps it is. Perhaps I am being overly dramatic and possibly even maudlin, wishing my life away, hankering after something that may never happen and so I will move on and speak of other things for fear of embarrassing you.
Work is still proving to be interesting. There is so much to do and I still have a lot to learn. I thought that when I completed my college training, I would be a fully rounded clued-up teacher but it appears there are many, many strands and skills required to penetrate and guide young minds, to steer them along the right path and make sure they leave my classroom, their heads stuffed full of knowledge, ready to enter into the world as fledgling adults.
How is your writing going? I’m guessing your book is nearing completion and hope that the solace up there in Loch Rannoch has provided you with enough peace and tranquillity to produce the next bestseller! You deserve every success, my darling, and more.
I would love to visit you but as I said in my last letter, work is all encompassing at the moment. Perhaps if you are still there during the summer break, I can drive up and we can spend some time together? I’m hoping you will have returned home by then and we can pass the long hazy days wrapped in one another’s arms but in case you’re not, how does a visit from me sound? I don’t want to crowd you or make you feel uncomfortable but I am missing you so much it’s like a physical ache. I wake every morning with an image of your face in my mind, its perfectly sculpted features and rosebud lips and I’m not sure how much longer I can go on without hearing from you. If only you had access to a phone, I could speak to you and hear your voice. Then I would know. I would be able to tell from the lilt of your timbre, from the modulation in your tone, whether or not you want out from this relationship.
Sitting in front of me on my desk is a photograph of you; the one where you are sitting staring up at the sky on that day when we visited York. Do you remember it, darling Clara? With hindsight, I think perhaps that was the day that things had begun to change. The obvious angling of your body away from me, the slight wrinkle on your brow that at the time I mistook for dreaminess and satisfaction now looks to me like restlessness and, perhaps even disdain. Yesterday I looked at more photographs of you, studying them closely, using my knowledge to try and work out more about you, because for all we are a couple, I realise that I actually know very little about you. I am aware that you will deny this, will want to tell me that my strange interest in an antiquated and often castigated hobby, is a ridiculous waste of time and that I am seeing things that aren’t there. But it isn’t a waste of time, you see. Physiognomy is very much a valued discipline and skill. It may have gone out of fashion and been rejected by many modern scientists but this is mainly because of its links in the late nineteenth century to phrenology, which is indeed worthy of being rejected and discredited, but physiognomy on its own still has its own merits and its use will one day be required as a way to study the human mind and all its complexities. Of that I am sure.
So anyway, as I was saying, my studies of your features has led me to some unsavoury and unpalatable conclusions. For now, I will reserve judgement and keep my thoughts to myself, but if I don’t hear from you soon, I may be unable to hold back my thoughts and it will all come spilling out – my deepest fears and worries about you, dear Clara. They are all stored up in my head and your lack of communication is doing nothing to alleviate them.
Please write back, my darling. I fear I am going mad here without you. I’m feeling extremely low and, possibly even a little depressed. My world is definitely a lesser place without you in it. You are my ray of sunshine, the warmth on my face. My reason for living.
Mother sends her best wishes, as do I.
I am sending you all of my love and will wait with bated breath for your reply.
Goodbye for now, my dearest Clara,
Dominic xx
11
Present Day
It feels wrong, and yet so very right. It’s a mask Kate wears to blot out the wretchedness and the loneliness and the humiliation. Sitting here putting on lipstick, applying perfume, dressing in the designer clothes she no longer wears because she doesn’t attend social functions, does little to lift her spirits but it’s better than sitting here doing nothing, wallowing in her own misfortune. It’s exhausting feeling so low all the time. Draining. She needs a bit of happiness. Deserves it. It’s like trying to catch butterflies, snatching at fragments of joy, often missing but sometimes capturing a few fleeting moments of unadulterated bliss.
Anthony has taken to his study and is reading the Financial Times, his eyes lowered away from the comings and goings of their family life. There was a time he would have asked her where she was going, perhaps even offered to drop her off and pick her up, but those days are behind them. Perhaps it’s for the best. The less time they spend in each other’s company, the less stressful every
thing seems to be. Distance is what keeps them together.
A small frisson of excitement pulses through her at the thought of tonight. It’s wrong, she knows that but there is so much about it that feels right that she is compelled to go, to say yes to something that could end her marriage, irreparably breaking apart her already damaged little world. There would be no going back from what she is about to do, no escape route to happier times.
Her heart stutters about beneath her breastbone, its staccato rhythm an uncomfortable sensation in her chest as she applies more perfume, its oily scent coating her skin, filling the room; delicate yet overpowering, musky yet sweet. She has to get it right. Coming across as brassy and overbearing will put an end to things before they have even begun. It’s all about balance.
In the room next to hers, she hears Jocelyn moving about, still groggy after coming home inebriated from that party last night. While Anthony slept soundly, Kate had listened as Alexander had tried to guide his sister upstairs, her shouting at him that he left her, him claiming he went back for her so she had better stop complaining and why did she drink so much anyway?
She had left them to it. Jocelyn would have only batted away her attempts to help and anyway, Alexander managed to get his sister home safely so what else was there to do? He appeared to have everything in hand. Jocelyn had made it to the bathroom to be sick leaving behind her an instantly recognisable stench that reminded Kate of her own student flat when her evenings were spent in a drunken haze, surrounded by friends, pizza and empty bottles of vodka. She thinks back to those halcyon days when her life was one long round of parties and the future held such promise. She graduated from Durham University and somehow managed to gain a 2:1 in English Literature despite missing more lectures than she cares to remember and handing in projects and essays that were well below the standards of which she was capable.
