by Esther Freud
Matt’s brother’s investment company has merged with another, larger corporation, and the employees from both sides are slapping each other on the back. I stand beside Matt’s suited shoulder while he drains his glass. ‘Matthew!’ A man approaches, and I feel him shrink as he is cross-examined.
I wait for a chance to put out my hand, but no chance comes. If Matt has forgotten this man’s name, it seems possible he’s forgotten mine, and as he reaches for another drink I walk around the outskirts of the room, where I’m embroiled in a conversation with Matt’s brother, who reprimands me, while keeping one eye on the guests, for not visiting his mother. I find my way to the ladies’ and stand at the mirror looking into it, wondering how long before we can leave.
‘You’re probably right . . .’ A voice drifts out from behind the cubicle door. ‘It’s just’ – the owner gives a sniff – ‘before, he used to pass my desk, like twenty times a day, any excuse, and now . . .’
I take a lipstick from my bag and smudge it against the centre of my mouth. Her friend in the next stall sighs, sympathetic.
‘It’s as if he’s avoiding me, although when I ask him he denies it . . .’
I press my lips together, let the red bleed out.
‘. . . and then tonight, why did he have to bring his wife, can you believe that?’
I look through the mirror at the two closed doors. There is a rustle and a flush. ‘I suppose if he didn’t, it might look suspicious?’
‘Coward.’
The friend has nothing more to add, and she emerges from her cubicle. She drops her eyes when she sees me. ‘Sarah,’ she hisses, ‘I’ll be outside,’ and passing her fingers momentarily under the tap, she totters out into the party.
I don’t wait for the other door to open. I pick up my glass and fight my way into the crowd. ‘Hello’ – I put out my hand – ‘I’m Kate. We’ve not been introduced.’ I look from Matt to his colleague, and flash them both a smile.
‘Ken,’ he greets me, vigorous, and then his attention is caught by someone across the room, and he is waving and gesticulating. ‘You know Sarah?’ He turns to Matt, and in case he doesn’t, he draws her towards us – a tussled blonde with makeup recently retouched, who apologises for the drink and cigarette that make it impossible to shake hands. ‘Sarah’s in Accounts.’
Matt swipes a fresh glass from a tray and takes a thirsty swallow.
‘Accounts? Of course. Hi, Sarah.’
‘Hi.’ There’s an uncomfortable pause, and when it seems there’s nothing more to say, Sarah smiles tightly and moves away.
‘YOU OK?’ MATT IS UNSTEADY as we brush our teeth, jostling for space to spit.
I look at my eyes, guarded. ‘Just tired,’ I tell him, and while he stumbles through into the bedroom and flings away his clothes, railing in an exaggerated whisper, louder possibly than his actual voice, about the bloody awful people at the party, how he’d get out if he could, I turn on to my side and pretend to sleep.
THAT WEEKEND WE’RE OUT AGAIN. I check over my words before I say them, check again, and when I speak my voice sounds false. ‘I’ve been thinking . . . tonight . . . could you try, maybe, drinking a bit less?’
‘Sure.’ His face snaps shut.
‘It’s just . . . Mum and Dad . . . Alice – she’s bringing someone.’ I’m primed for an argument, ridicule, a case for his defence, but instead he lifts the glass of beer he’s poured and tips it down the sink.
Now Matt strides ahead of me as we walk towards the bus. ‘Listen, I didn’t mean . . .’ My heart lies heavy. For fuck’s sake! I’d like to scream, but we’re paying a babysitter by the hour, and it’s not worth it to argue in the street. The bus is pulling in as we round the corner. We run, waving for it, exclaiming with relief as we leap on. We sit at the front and our two known bodies press together as it rocks. Neither of us speaks, and I search for the image of Matt as I first knew him, his hand reaching out to me, the promise of it as he drew me in. I am lying beside him in the dark. ‘There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you,’ the words rose out of me, and he’d laughed – had I scared him? – and uncurling a strand of my hair, he’d stretched and straightened it until it snapped.
Alice is already at the restaurant. She leaps up when she sees us and introduces Jamie. ‘Kate,’ I put out my hand, ‘Alice’s sister,’ and Jamie, who’s tall and tanned, kisses both my cheeks. Matt greets Alice and shakes Jamie’s hand, and we sit down, the four of us, and wait.
‘So how are they?’ Alice leans towards me.
I look at her, unsure.
‘Our parents!’
‘They’re fine. At least I saw Mum, and she was . . .’ How was she?
‘And Dad, when did you last see him?’
I shake my head. I don’t remember.
‘When I spoke to him . . .’ Alice frowns, but the waiter has come to take our order. ‘What do you think, shall we . . . ?’
Jamie puts up his hand. ‘We’ll have champagne.’ Across the table I feel my sister quiver.
‘So . . .’ There really is no other subject. ‘How did you two meet?’ They pause, and stammer, but it’s clear I’ve asked their favourite question, and they’re off, overlapping, contradicting, lingering on each other’s every phrase. I reach down and take Matt’s hand.
‘Terrible, horrible traffic.’ Our mother arrives in a fluster. ‘We got to Victoria, and then, clearly, it was a mistake to take a taxi. I did say, but your . . .’
Dad stands stoically by, waiting for her to finish.
Jamie is introduced. Sir, he calls our father, and he kisses Mum on the cheek. I glance at Matt, but he doesn’t catch my eye.
Everyone is seated when the champagne arrives. A silver bucket, a frosted, smoking bottle. We wait in silence for the ceremonial pouring.
‘Wait one second.’ Alice’s fair face flushes. ‘There’s something we wanted . . . Jamie and I . . . something we wanted to let you know.’ We lower our glasses.
Jamie is pale. ‘I know you’ve only just met me, but Alice and I, we didn’t want to keep it from you, from anybody really . . .’
‘We’re engaged.’ She is so joyful, so sure, that we all clink glasses and, amid a ripple of relief, we drink. All except Matt, who lowers his glass untouched. I nudge him. It’s not what I meant.
‘So have you thought at all about the wedding?’ Mum is awash with happiness.
Alice’s eyes mirror her own. ‘We have, but for now, we’re just enjoying being engaged.’
‘But you’ll be relocated?’ It is the only direct question Dad asks all night, and when Alice hesitates, his body folds.
‘Atlanta is a lovely place to live. In some areas at least,’ Jamie says.
‘Clapboard houses,’ Alice agrees, ‘cherry trees . . .’
‘You should both come and visit.’ He is eager. ‘All of you.’ He turns to us. ‘Bring your little girl,’ and when no one answers, Alice adds, ‘Although it can get very hot.’
FOR THREE LONG WEEKS Matt doesn’t drink. He comes home from work and slumps on to the sofa. ‘Maybe we could go out one night?’ I suggest, but without a beer he prefers to go to bed. He’s upstairs by nine, hunched under the covers, and it is only when Ian calls to set up a rehearsal that he concedes there may be something wrong. ‘It’s probably a bug of some kind.’ He isn’t keen, though, when I suggest it, on going to the doctor.
‘Has there been no news’ – I’m wary of sounding like my mother, like his mother, who he loathes – ‘about the band?’ When he doesn’t answer, I press on. ‘You were good, it’s not just me who’s saying it.’ I push away the missing hours of that night.
‘There was a manager in’ – Matt turns away – ‘but he’s not interested.’
‘There are other managers. Do you have more dates lined up?’
‘What’s the point?’ Matt sighs.
What’s the point of anything, if you look at it like that? ‘I think you’re brilliant.’ I’m fighting to stay afloat, and I wonder how it is that even my
admiration presents itself as an attack.
That night my tree is the oak. Alice and I have climbed it and are inching along the slope of its branch. ‘Careful,’ our mother calls, and we move slowly, two riders, bareback, the barrel of its girth between our knees. Below lies the shadowed ground, leaves and dust, the scuff marks of feet, and I roll under, hang for a minute, and before I have a chance I’m falling, a corridor rising up to meet me, Matt, a fingertip from reach. I jolt awake and lie still in the bed. My heart is racing, my nightdress drenched with sweat. ‘Matt?’ I whisper, but his back is to me and he doesn’t wake.
I pull on my dressing gown and go downstairs. I twist the handle of my workroom and step inside. It’s like standing in a forest: the shadows of the branches, the leaves dappling the floor. I think of the requests I’ve had to mount a show, art-school friends mostly, one gallery owner who asked me to get in touch, but I can’t part with anything, not yet. First my trees must grow to their full height. My eye is caught by the stencilling knife, stored for safety on a shelf. Heaving up a roll of lining paper, I carry it into the kitchen and spread it out over the floor. I begin with the roots, sketch in the trunk, crawl after it across the lintel and along the hall. I’m crouched by the front door when Matt appears. ‘What are you doing?’
I look up. He’s wearing striped boxers, a faded T-shirt, socks. It’s the socks that catch me, remind me that it’s him. ‘What’s it for?’ he asks, and although I hadn’t known it until now, I tell him that I’ve got a plan to brighten up the yard.
‘Which yard?’
‘At work.’
We look at each other. Whatever the distance . . . I take a breath. ‘I’m making a stencil of an oak tree. I’ll spray it on to hardboard panels – I’ll need to paint them, attach them to the wall.’ I bend back over the sweep of the crown.
Matt waits. ‘Night then.’ He stumbles up the stairs.
‘Muuum.’ Freya must have heard him creak across the landing.
‘Matt! Can’t you . . . ?’ In answer there’s the click of the bedroom door.
Freya lies still under the covers. ‘What if I die?’ Tears streak her face. ‘And you’re still alive?’
‘Then you’ll wait for me in heaven’ – I have a stick of charcoal in my hand – ‘where waiting is the most fun thing and no one minds.’ I’ve got it wrong. ‘That will never happen’ is what I should have said, and I clench my fist so tight the charcoal snaps.
Freya’s shoulders are hunched up by her ears, and her eyelashes are spiked and black. I climb in beside her and wrap myself around her small, held body. ‘Everything is scarier in the middle of the night.’ I breathe slow and deep; I’d breathe for her if I could. ‘Shhh.’ I count to five, to twenty-five, to fifty. When I feel her soften into sleep, slowly, stiffly, I ease myself from the room. I hover on the landing – the pull is strong to go back downstairs – but Matt is in the doorway. ‘Come to bed.’ He has his hand stretched out, and I take it and let myself be led. ‘Hey.’ His breath is clean, his eyes bright, and I laugh, nervous, and lay my head on the cushion of his shoulder, and it occurs to me I can’t remember the last time we had sex when he wasn’t hungover or drunk. We examine each other, self-conscious, and I think how strange it is to have his attention, when for so long if I wanted it I had to stand in front of him and shout. ‘Kate,’ he says, and I open my eyes. I hadn’t known that they’d been closed. ‘Stay with me.’
‘I’m here,’ I say, unblinking, but really I am far away.
Aoife
THAT FIRST CHRISTMAS AFTER THE WAR WE WENT ACROSS TO Joe and Elsie for our dinner, do you remember? She laid on such a spread. They had their own girl back from Ireland, and the two of them, Rosaleen and Patricia, eyeing each other like they’d gone for the same job. They’d let her run wild, that’s what Elsie said, over at Kilcrea, and the quicker she lost the accent, or how was she ever to get on? At least Rosaleen didn’t gabber like a peasant, we agreed on that, but the truth was our daughter didn’t say much of anything at all – no, and won’t – so how was anyone to know?
Mock duck, Elsie made us, with sausage, apples, onion and sage. We clapped when she brought it to the table, and not one of us thought to mention that it didn’t look like duck, or taste like duck. No. We were delighted with it as it was. She served it with potato floddies. That’s when their girl set down her knife and fork. She said the floddies looked like cowpats – well, she should know, five years on the farm – and she refused to eat them, and Rosaleen, it took less than that to put her off her food. The two of them, they were sent out of the room. We could hear them, they must have been jumping off the bed, and then didn’t Elsie storm upstairs and there was silence. Floddies. I was thinking I might make some for my tea. I’ve got everything I need: a potato for grating, herbs and flour and the fat I saved from last night’s chop. There was no butter to spare then, not for frying, and I’m after the taste of how it was when it was just the two of us, when there was no one and nothing to come between us, not even the war.
Squeeze my hand, Cash. Go on. Just this once. Or blink, you stubborn man. Right so, then I’ll wait. I’ll sit here for as long as it takes. I’ll wait until you find a way to tell me what you know.
Rosaleen
IT WAS ONLY ANOTHER FORTNIGHT BEFORE BETTY ASKED TO have a word. She took her out into the corridor, their voices shielded by the rumble of the press. ‘You won’t be able to stay on here – you know that, don’t you?’
When had she guessed?
‘All sorted, are you?’ Betty’s tone suggested there was only one answer she’d prefer to hear, and so Rosaleen assured her that everything was settled. ‘Good girl. You’ll be paid until the end of the week.’
‘You mean today?’
Betty nodded. She wanted her gone.
Rosaleen took her coat and walked down to the river. There was an ice wind rippling the water, and the people she passed looked chapped and raw. Now what am I to do? The old question started up again, but what amazed her was that it ever went away. Maybe I’ll die. It was the only comfort she could give herself, and less bitter than the image of Felix, swerving away from her as he sat in that hospital room beside his wife.
Rosaleen kept walking until she reached the Embankment, and from there she trudged up to Trafalgar Square, where even the pigeons looked sparse and shivering, without a kernel of corn in sight. She cut through Chinatown and, although she’d not intended it, found herself in Soho. She stood outside the French pub and dared herself to go in. What if he was in there? With her? Would she have the strength to make a scene, run an elbow down the length of the bar, smash glasses, ashtrays to the floor? She pressed her face against the window but could see nothing through the fug of smoke. A man lurched round the corner, his jacket high around his ears. She didn’t know him, and as she made to step in after, the door swung back and hit her in the face. A woman came out in a burst of noise, followed by another. They glanced at her, incurious, and linking arms they strode away. Rosaleen stood undecided. Ten minutes. Half an hour. Then she turned and, walking blindly, found herself on Meard Street, outside the coffee shop where, in that miraculous year before she’d gone to Ireland, she’d spent her afternoons. She looked in through the window and saw herself as she was then, talking and laughing, mapping out her future, catching her first sight of Felix. He’d been leaning up against a wall, white shirt, the sleeves rolled up, his dark head dipped towards his cup. She’d kept looking, it was hard to force herself away, and when he’d turned and caught her, there it was, the brilliance of his stare. ‘How have I not seen you here before?’ He had the accent of a foreigner, but he held himself, at home.
‘You’ve seen me now,’ she answered boldly, and she felt her face crack open in a smile.
‘I have.’ He didn’t look away and, draining his coffee, he said he was already looking forward to seeing her again. ‘In fact’ – he set his cup down – ‘if I leave now, the pleasure of it can begin.’ With a last devouring stare he swung out into the stre
et.
‘BLESS ME, FATHER . . .’ She’d stepped into St Patrick’s Church, a cavernous building made almost invisible by the squash of Soho Square. ‘For I have sinned.’
‘What is the nature of your sin, my child?’
‘I have been with a man,’ and in case that wasn’t clear, Rosaleen resorted to the ugly words he’d understand. Lustful, carnal, impure. The facts established, she recited the formal act of contrition and was given a penance of six Hail Marys, but before absolving her, the priest directed her to a passage from the Gospel of Matthew: Blessed are the pure of heart, for they shall see God. Then, in a voice rising above a whisper and with a gesture of blessing just visible through the grill, he pronounced: ‘Ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.’
‘But what am I to do?’ After all, it was why she was here.
The priest scribbled something – she could hear his pen – and then he passed a slip of paper to her through the grille. The Sisters of Mercy. There was a telephone number with a familiar code. ‘Put yourself in their good hands,’ he counselled. ‘May God go with you.’ He bowed his head and began to pray, and Rosaleen ducked out of the confessional, skirted the empty nave and stepped through the door into the dark. She stopped under a street lamp and unfurled the paper. Convent of the Sacred Heart. The code was for Cork.
There was a news-stand on the corner of Tottenham Court Road where she broke her wages into shillings, buying a newspaper although it was the last thing she needed, and finding a phone box, she arranged her coins on the cold ashy shelf and took out the slip of paper. How many times – she examined the priest’s cramped hand – had he written this number? Judging by how swiftly he’d set it down, she guessed he must have it by heart.
‘A trunk call to Ireland,’ she told the operator. There were crackles and clicks and a thirty-second silence as her ears strained across the sea. ‘Putting you through now.’ The girl sounded breezy. Rosaleen thanked her and listened to the long-distance ring. Once, twice, four times. Maybe there’s no one there? Her heart lifted, but there was always someone at a convent. Where else would the nuns go?
