Fragile

by Sarah Hilary

I separated his words in my head, trying to make sense of them. Pity, tears, pain. Was he sorry for last night? Impermanence – telling me it must never happen again? I hadn’t seen him like this before, his eyes shining like a scholar’s. This was how he’d been as a schoolboy, big with learning and possibility, so much to see and touch and know. A betraying whisper in my head: He’s taking refuge in Latin and Japanese, languages he knows you don’t know, to shut you out and make himself safe again. Rebuilding the walls between us, scholar and servant.

  ‘It sounds like poetry.’ I reached to touch a finger to the page.

  ‘It is poetry. I lived in Japan for six months, when I was your age.’

  He moved his hand so the ends of our fingers touched, framed in cherry blossom. It was too chaste, ludicrous after last night. I drew my hand back, afraid of being tricked into another emotion.

  Last night cannot have meant much to him, I told myself, or else he’d have said something, not simply shown me pictures and poetry. But perhaps he was waiting for me to speak first. I’d slept badly, snatching at dreams of walking with my mother in a wet wood with the ripe stink of winter all around us, carrying cans of paint for the new walls in my room, the baby’s room.

  Behind me, the banknotes burnt in the wall. If only I’d taken the cash and left with Joe. I didn’t belong here any more than Joe did, but Joe hadn’t left the house. He was upstairs, sharing a bed with my lover’s wife. I wanted to laugh. I wanted to weep.

  ‘Sit with me.’ Robin reached for the coffee. ‘Bring another cup.’

  I shook my head. ‘I have breakfast to make.’

  Carolyn would come down from the guest room soon, with or without Joe. I had to be back in the kitchen when that happened. I’d make toast for Joe, I didn’t care about that, but I couldn’t sit next to Robin and pretend it’d all worked out the way she’d wanted it. Her neat, post-coital quartet.

  ‘Please, just for a moment. I want to talk to you.’ He waited then added, ‘She won’t be up for another hour, at least. Perhaps not at all.’

  I mistook his meaning for a second, picturing bloodied corpses: Joe and Carolyn slaughtered as they slept.

  It was the Latin and the strangeness of the morning, conspiring to put me on high alert for tragedy. But he only meant sex, that Carolyn would spend the day in bed with Joe for sex.

  ‘Please,’ he repeated.

  ‘I brought two cups, in case she was awake.’

  ‘Perfect. Use that one.’ He crossed the room to bring a second chair to the desk, clearing space for me to sit at a right angle to him.

  ‘Tell me about Japan,’ I said, to fill the small silence. ‘You lived there for six months?’

  ‘In the mountains. Takayama. You wouldn’t believe the stars on a clear night, so many stars packed so close together. I slept outside when I could. The sika deer came right up to the doors.’ He’d been happy; it shone from his eyes.

  ‘Sika deer . . .’ I fished for what little I knew about Japan. ‘Are those the sacred temple deer?’

  ‘Yes.’ He smiled and I wondered how much it mattered to him that I could hold a conversation like this, how much more I was to him than a girl he’d seduced. ‘I’d have stayed, if I could. For a long time I thought of living there, finding work as an English translator.’

  ‘Why didn’t you?’

  ‘Life got in the way of living.’ His expression didn’t change, as if he’d done all his regretting long ago and had no patience with self-pity. I’d have poured the coffee but he was already doing it, remembering the way I liked mine, gifting me the froth from the milk. ‘Now tell me something. Where were you, before Meagan Flack fostered you? You were eight years old?’

  ‘When she took me in, yes. Before then I was with my birth mother, but she wanted to marry and they wanted a new family.’

  ‘You were their family.’ Robin passed me the cup. ‘Surely.’

  ‘I was a mistake my mum made when she was too young to know any better. She didn’t like being reminded of it. She said she deserved a second chance, and so did I. She was honest about it, at least.’ I sipped at the coffee. ‘She couldn’t love me the way a mum should. I was excited to be fostered, I thought it would be different to be picked by someone who really wanted me.’

  Robin listened in silence, passing no comment on my mother’s selfishness or my naivety.

  ‘I don’t remember very much about her. You’d think, being eight, I’d have lots of memories.’ I paused, wanting to pick the right words. ‘She wasn’t neglectful, it wasn’t that. It’s as if . . . my brain got rid of my memories of her, to make room for my new life.’

  With Meagan and Joe, and with Rosie. All my memories were of Rosie now. Robin wanted more, I heard it in his silence. There was a flush of colour in his face as he waited. He looked younger and happier than I’d seen him look before. I searched my memory for a suitable story.

  ‘I do remember one thing. A pair of yellow sandals when I was five or six. Just straps really, around the heel and ankle, and a strap across the toes. I wore them everywhere. At Christmas, I was invited to a fancy dress party and I wanted to go as Athena. I’d been reading a book of Greek myths from the library. I’d have lived in the library, if they’d let me.’

  I hesitated, wanting to give him a truth, however small. He’d given me the sika deer, a handful of his happiness. ‘I suppose I used stories to make sense of my life, and to feel safe. I’d been reading about Arachne, how Athena turned her into a spider for daring to boast about her sewing skills. I thought the outfit would be easy, it was basically a sheet, and I could make a helmet with kitchen foil. I only needed the sandals. My mum bought a can of spray-paint after I begged her, and she sprayed my yellow sandals silver. Only it didn’t work, because the silver wouldn’t dry. She left them by the radiator for days, but they never dried. In the end, she had to throw them away. She was cross about the expense but she’d done it to make me happy. I remember that.’

  ‘Did you go to the party?’ Robin asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘As Athena?’

  ‘Barefoot.’ I fished a tiny coffee ground from my cup, black on the pink tip of my finger. ‘Of course no one knew who I was meant to be. The best guess was Madonna – the singer, not the other one.’ I made a gift of the joke, and he welcomed it.

  We laughed together. It was easy, too easy. I should have taken fright, knowing this was wrong, that it couldn’t last. At some level, I did know. My stomach wouldn’t stop churning, but I pretended because I wanted it to last a little longer. Our closeness.

  The Japanese guidebook lay open on the desk between us with its pictures of his vast skies filled with stars, the home he’d made in the mountains. So much of Japan was built on volcanoes, shaped by the shifting plates of the earth. Hadn’t it been joined to Siberia, once upon a time? I tried to picture him with cherry blossom in his hair, sacred deer pushing at his hands for food.

  ‘There was an earthquake when I was in Takayama, quite a big one.’ He touched a hand to the guidebook. ‘I was surprised how little it frightened the people I was living with. Afterwards, they were unsentimental, sweeping everything up, replanting their gardens and starting over. They said it’s what you do when you live in a place where earthquakes and tsunamis are a fact of life, “You learn to let go.” For a long time, I tried to live by that example. When my grandfather left me this house, I thought it an anachronism. I intended to sell it, perhaps even to return to Japan. Then I met Carolyn, and everything changed.’ He smoothed a frown from his face with his fingers. ‘Mono no aware,’ he murmured. ‘I studied it briefly, at university. A poet, Matsuo Bashō, wrote haiku about it. The tears of things . . .’

  ‘Tell me one of his poems.’ I sat to attention, a good student.

  ‘I’m not sure I remember any.’ He crinkled the bridge of his nose. ‘Let’s see . . . “Summer grasses – the only remains of warriors’ dreams.” Fitting, for Athena.’

  And it was all right, that’s what I told myself, beca
use he was pretending too. We wouldn’t fall out over what had happened last night, even if I brought up Meagan’s demand for money. I couldn’t break his heart, even if I broke my own. He was so much older than me. I told myself that to him this was just a game such as two strangers might play on the long and tedious journey home after a holiday romance, knowing it’s over but needing to fill the time on the plane and during the wait at the carousel for separate suitcases before the short walk away from one another, back into separate lives.

  In the kitchen, the sun was in the sink, sitting on last night’s unwashed wine glasses. I rolled up my sleeves, turning over all the things he’d said, and left unsaid. Did he want me to stay, or was the speech about Japan a farewell?

  ‘Mono no aware,’ I whispered. ‘The tears of things.’

  I was weeping as I whispered it, but tears were no use.

  Meagan would be coming soon, with her hands held out, wanting his hush money.

  I ran hot water into the sink. The sun had no heat this early in the day. I shivered as I told myself the story of what would happen next, here in Starling Villas. Not the story I wanted, but the real one, the only believable story.

  Robin and I would sleep together a second time, and then a third. His sheets would start to smell of me and at first he’d like it, but soon he’d want the sheets taking to the laundry. That would be the beginning of the end of it, of us. I’d have no time to attend to his rota, too busy touching him and being touched. There’d be a kind of duty in that to begin with but the neglect elsewhere would start to infuriate him. He’d remember the time he’d put into the rota, its details like stitches holding his life in order. He’d start to resent the blurring of its lines. Dust creeping in, corners being cut.

  ‘That cheese in the omelette, what was that? Cheddar? I prefer Edam, if you must shop in supermarkets.’ That sort of thing. And I’d know he was snapping not about the cheapness of the cheese but about the cost of having Joe in the house when I was already here. When I was the one who’d brought Joe back, breaching the rules. Perhaps I was stealing from him too, keeping food for myself, eating it in secret. A little might be tolerated, but where did it end?

  ‘I asked you to let the wine breathe,’ I imagined him saying. ‘This wine hasn’t breathed.’

  He’d allowed me to live in his attic, furnished with instructions to make sure his needs were met, day and night. Neither of us had blinked at the arrangement. I’d gone about my work so readily he must have imagined his demands were few. It was my own fault. I’d pandered to his proclivities as if they were nothing unusual, certainly nothing to be remarked upon. I’d given him that – the ultimate luxury of feeling normal.

  I pressed the scourer to the wine glasses, water swelling in the sink.

  The story took shape around me, as if I’d summoned a stage set. Walls springing up, doors slamming shut. My eyes heated with tears, but I didn’t stop. Meagan’s voice took up the story in my head: Found yourself a gaoler, girlie? He’d wanted a servant, that’s what I was. All I was. To imagine anything more was vanity. Worse, it was a trap. Secretly, all men want a slave, someone to do exactly as she’s told. If they could press a button and make it happen without fear of being judged, even by their own conscience, I think all men would do it.

  In this way, as the hot water softened my hands, I hardened my heart to him. Because I didn’t believe anything else was possible. When had I ever succeeded in getting what I wanted?

  ‘Remember the Shunt Lounge,’ Joe had said, and I did remember.

  If Robin found out about that, we’d be over. He wouldn’t want to touch me ever again. There would be no pity in him, no tears for the small fleeting thing between us. No mono no aware.

  30

  The Shunt Lounge was a pit. Grungy yet pretentious, everyone faking an interest in the art on the walls, everyone faking everything. Only Joe and I thought we’d found the real London, our London. We’d put the past in its place, that’s what we thought, imagining our secret locked shut and sunk deep, airtight. This was days after we’d escaped from Lyle’s. London was new to us, and we loved it. The big city don’t-look-now deadly with danger and vice, mind the gap, police sirens, protests. Fearlessness was our new thing.

  I slouched my shoulder to the Shunt Lounge’s wall, a beer bottle at my lips, feeling the fever in Joe’s gaze as he watched me swallow. I was in charge, tonight. And every night. Meagan would’ve been proud. She’d trained us to stay on our toes, trusting no one, taking what we wanted from whoever we chose.

  In London, hers was the mask I put on. For one night only, that’s what I’d thought, that first night when the stares scared me and the streets scared me; everything scared me. I put her on, and I’d not been able to take her off since.

  ‘I paid for that.’ I jerked my head at the beer in Joe’s hand. ‘Drink it, or hand it over.’

  Joe put the bottle to his lips. Obeying me, the way he’d always obeyed her. He propped himself against the wall, mirroring my body language. He’d scoped the exits to the Lounge as soon as we saw the sort of people who patronized it. When I shoved away from the wall, he tensed up.

  I turned to face him, blocking his view. ‘Where’re you going?’

  Joe shook his head. ‘Nowhere.’ It thrilled me, the way he was dancing to my tune.

  Behind him, a fresh push of people entered the Lounge.

  I didn’t need to check the crowd to know the man from the train was part of it. Mr Intercity, that was the name we’d given him. He didn’t know our names, but he’d followed us when we got off the train. I’d let him follow us.

  In the Lounge, I lifted a hand, thumbing at my lip.

  Joe knew something was up but he also knew he wouldn’t get anywhere by asking questions or whining for attention. It hadn’t worked with Meagan, and it wouldn’t work with me.

  I watched him drink, aware of the skin heating under my ribs. ‘Come here,’ I said.

  ‘Where?’ He took the beer bottle from his lips, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

  ‘Here.’ I gave him a slow smile, knowing how he loved to be warm.

  He crouched to set the bottle on the floor. When he straightened, he was so close I could see the fine grain of his skin. I didn’t touch, just held him there with my stare. I knew exactly what I was doing. The rush was like nothing I’d ever felt before.

  Joe didn’t jump when Intercity groped him. He moved a fraction closer to me, saying, ‘Sorry,’ across his shoulder, as if he’d put his waist into the man’s hands by accident.

  I laughed. That froze Joe. It should have frozen me too, because it was her laugh. Meagan’s. Joe stared at me, then tried to turn his head to look at Intercity. I grabbed Joe’s chin and kissed him, hard. ‘It’s okay.’ I licked the raw corner of his mouth, pulling him closer, laughing before kissing him again, feeling him shudder as Intercity’s hands held him between the heat of our bodies.

  Across the high angle of Joe’s cheek, I smiled into Intercity’s eyes, seeing pound signs there like a cartoon: ker-ching. He bent his head to lick at the skin behind Joe’s ear and I grabbed Joe’s hips, pulling him closer. He’s mine.

  When I drew back, I saw the fever in Joe’s eyes.

  Intercity freed a hand to reach for my neck, pulling me to a kiss that tasted of Joe.

  All around us, the Shunt Lounge pulsed indifferently. No one was interested in what we were doing. London didn’t care, and I loved that. Intercity and I could’ve screwed Joe right there, if I’d let it happen. I was giddy with power.

  Joe’s head fell back, the line of his throat darkening. Intercity was staying hidden, not wanting to make eye contact. Joe was hanging between us like a doll. I kissed the side of his head, drawing it down, away from Intercity, away from everyone.

  Mine, I thought. You’re mine.

  London ate us up, and spat us out.

  For those first few weeks, neither of us knew what we were doing. The freedom went to our heads. There was always someone happy to buy
us a drink or a meal, a bracelet or a phone. London was packed with Intercities.

  Later, we found our way to men like Brian who were happy to share their beds or sofas, until they weren’t.

  Joe and I shared everything. Favours, love, punishment.

  I was punishing us, I know that now. Homelessness wasn’t enough, I had to hurt us properly. The streets only made Joe cold, which was nothing when you considered what we deserved. What we still deserved.

  Robin and Carolyn Wilder were collateral damage, the same as in a war. Because Joe and I had been at war since we left Lyle’s, carrying our dead, the burden heavier with every step. We never spoke her name, unless it was in our sleep.

  Joe had been my whole world, once. But he was like Robin’s deer, pushing their faces into his hands – the soft of him like innocence, sacred and hungry, always hungry.

  London was so loud, swarming and seething, showing us its teeth. Joe went back to the drugs. I filled my emptiness with promises and lies, half-formed thoughts of vengeance. And late at night, with her. My arms aching, skin keening, all of me bent double under her weight, the black lip of the lake seeping into everything.

  31

  ‘Come to Jesus!’ The couple had parked themselves on the pavement outside the guesthouse, a pair of holy rollers in orange anoraks with pamphlets they couldn’t give away. ‘Make the change!’

  They’d settled in for the duration, same as yesterday, when Meagan left Joe and Nell in the posh house and came back here to a dirty bed and dirtier curtains. He’d be lording it up with the mistress of the house, whoever that was. Not Nell, not yet. Carolyn Wilder with her gold bracelets, laughing about Bala, wanting Joe back in her bed. And he was happy enough with the arrangement, never mind how many women like her had interfered with him as a boy. Old habits die hard.

  ‘Come to Jesus, make the change!’

  Meagan’s old da had been religious, raising God as often as he raised his fists. Religion was just another way to keep things the same as they’d always been – the likes of her at the bottom of the heap, the Wilders at the top. Nothing in between but debt and temptation. Master and servant, Joe said, that was the game they played in Starling Villas. As if there hadn’t been enough of that in Joe’s life and Nell’s already. Meagan shoved at the window, opening it a foot so she could smoke.