by Morag Joss
“Would you be happy with that?”
All this said, and with a pleased glance at each other, they both stop to rest and look at me with smiles on their faces, and we all wait until I realize they want nothing except my agreement, which I give. I don’t know what I think about it yet, but it’s a less pressing matter than the state the house was in, crumbling before my eyes, when I left this morning. I haven’t yet seen Theo today. I fancy he was sleeping when the render fell off—there was no sign of him—so I need to reassure him on the matter of the repairs to what is, after all, his bedroom wall. And of course I must ask his advice about how to proceed.
By the time we get back to the house I am feeling unsettled and so is Howard, but fortunately he’s also tired and takes himself off for a nap before lunch. I won’t wake him. He’s stuffed with biscuits so he probably won’t need lunch, and besides, he’s increasingly picky about eating my bread and the chutney stuff I made with the big marrow and some curry spices that needed using up. More often than not there’s cheese to go with it (but not today—I was too distracted by events to think of shopping) so he can hardly complain.
Theo never complains about food. Not even when it’s unconventional and last-minute, which it often is now that life is much fuller. Theo has a way of holding my attention, which means I’m slower over some of my chores and sometimes I will idle away whole hours in conversation and then just fling together any old thing to eat. Given the choice, I might well have given up on cooking altogether by now and gone on to convenience foods and takeaways (the very thought makes me giggle). That’s if I had the money, or a microwave, which I don’t. Actually there’s less money than before. There’s been no Bed and Breakfast cash for ages now so I’m getting meals out of anything I can salvage from the garden and cupboards. It’s fun, experimenting a little. I’m using all the flour I bought, of course, but keeping the special nuts and fruits for Christmas. I’m well aware that some of the results may be strange to some tastes but everybody likes dumplings, don’t they? It’s amazing how filling they are and how easy to make. Also, a big marrow goes a long way.
I find Theo in the yard and ask him what to do. He comes straight to the point and tells me to ring Digger straightaway and says there’s no need to be afraid of him because Theo will be right behind me (in the background, of course—neither of us needs to spell out the necessity for that). The yard is a shambles, he says sternly, and the extra mess from the fallen masonry makes it look as if the whole place is falling down around us. If Digger’s coming, I have to spruce up the yard a little. He is right. Digger hasn’t been here since the shearing and already I can hear what he’ll say in that loud voice of his. Come to think of it, what if he demands an inspection of the whole place, pretending to check for other repairs? I wander around, doing my best to pull the weeds out from around the doorways but most of them are nettles so I’ll have to come back later with gloves.
It’s good to have Theo’s perspective on things. I’ve grown used to what an eyesore the yard is, I suppose, but now I see it through his eyes. Howard’s shaky scaffolding is still in place against the house and now looks more like homemade buttressing, shoved up to keep the walls standing. I won’t go up those ladders again so the painting is still not even half-done, and I can’t get the scaffolding down on my own. But maybe the point of leaving it up has been that I liked to think of Adam coming back and getting the job finished. I see now how silly that is. Adam never comes, and even if he did he wouldn’t think of offering and I wouldn’t dream of asking. Theo murmurs, reading my mind, that in due course we’ll get something done about it. I don’t know if by it he means the scaffolding, the painting, or Adam’s visits, but I am reassured.
I poke around some more, going into all the old places I’ve ignored. The pig shed roof is worse; the pinholes between the slates have multiplied and in one corner the beams curve toward the ground like the bow of a ship and will soon collapse. Some lengths of rotting timber from the dismantled and broken pigpens still lean against the back wall. Patches of black and green fungus are sprouting everywhere, and as I walk around scraping my fingers along the cold stone, my feet kick up a musky smell from the earth floor. It’s a dump. I’m truly glad I don’t have to hear Howard describing it to our Bed and Breakfast guests as “the potential yoga studio” anymore. It always was perfectly absurd to think he would ever do it up and run classes in here. But, I remark to Theo (who has followed me in), when I realized it would never happen, I kept quiet in case Howard took my point and went back to using it for pigs, which I really couldn’t stand. Right up until Howard had his stroke I went on pretending it was going to be a proper yoga studio one day.
From across the pig shed Theo gives me an old-fashioned look and says, “Have you ever considered that maybe Howard was pretending, too?” His impertinence takes me by surprise and I refuse to answer. He adds, “Maybe he knew as well as you did it wasn’t going to happen. Maybe he was trying not to disappoint you.”
“You make me angry sometimes,” I tell Theo, “throwing questions at me that are none of your business.” He offers a mild apology, saying he didn’t really mean it. Then he imposes one of his small silences, which are painful, and always up to me to break, which I won’t do before I’m good and ready.
I’ve seen all I want to see in here and I make for the doorway, but then I turn for a last look. Yes, you do make me angry, I confess aloud to Theo, but not as angry as Howard makes me. It’s true; in my mind’s eye I can still see Howard standing here, and his lips, encircled by moustache and beard, pursing up with an infinitesimal, almost concealed smirk of self-satisfaction and—as I perceive it now—self-delusion, and forming the words “the potential yoga studio.” And then, I whisper to Theo, I could hit him, I really could. And for something that’s all over and done with and in the past. Isn’t that terrible? Theo bestows another silence.
“Not really,” he says, following me out and across to the pottery studio. “Some things never really are in the past. You can’t help it if some things go on mattering.” I walk on ahead of him so I don’t have to think of a reply to this.
My onslaught on the pottery shed has stalled, because I don’t know how I’ll ever shift enough of the dust to get it usable for drying laundry. The trouble is that anything damp dropped on the floor (or anywhere else) will instantly need rewashing, because every surface and implement lies under a matt, pinkish coat of clay powder. The thought of the mess I’d make trying to hose the whole place clean is appalling: I imagine the blasts of water drumming into the corners and knocking things off shelves, the drenched and dripping walls, the tools and objects tumbling and rolling in a running river of mud. Then, even if I got the place clean, would it ever dry out? I explain this to Theo and he tuts in recognition of what a tremendous task it would be. “We’ll address it in due course,” he says, and tells me not to worry.
Next, I peer in through the broken panes of the loom shed window. I’m not surprised to see that the floor is dark and grainy. House martins have been flying in and out all Spring and Summer; they’ve migrated now, leaving their nests on the crossbeam and the floor spackled with droppings. My last piece of weaving is still on the loom from nearly three years ago. There’s bird shit on that, too, and something’s been eating it, but the truth is it was a pebbly, dun sort of cloth anyway so it isn’t as shocking to see it spoiled than as if I’d been weaving, say, tinselly swathes of pink or turquoise or lilac. It makes me smile to think of such colors anywhere near this place. I don’t want to go in. “Come away, you’ve seen enough,” Theo says.
Back in the house I telephone Digger and leave a message for him to come as soon as he can, then I make scrambled eggs for lunch, which Theo and I both like. A modest enough little pleasure in a demanding day, scrambled eggs for lunch, I venture to say, and Theo agrees and compliments me on my cooking.
“Not everybody can make good scrambled eggs.”
Simply said, simply meant. I bask in it.
H
oward doesn’t stir, and I don’t wake him up. I do the dishes, and then Theo suggests we check over the rest of the house so that if Digger does get nosy we won’t be caught on the back foot.
But we don’t make it any farther than the room that Theo occupies, the single Bed and Breakfast bedroom from whose wall the render fell. As soon as I walk in I’m ashamed. It’s freezing. I’ve never given a thought to the ice-cold radiator in here (even if the heating worked properly it’s too expensive to run) or checked the number of blankets Theo has. Have I ever offered him a hot water bottle? I’ve never even wondered if he has anything warm to wear in bed. I have neglected him.
Even worse, I discover why the pebbledash fell off. It must have been cracked and letting the rain in for months, which has soaked the brickwork right through. While the outside mortar perished and the pebbledash fell off in lumps, the plaster on the inside is soaked and the wallpaper under the window lies in long, peeling-off tongues. The room is uninhabitable, like the third Bed and Breakfast room, which I closed up last winter when a bit of ceiling plaster came down and some black stuff started growing out of the skirting board. (I did mean to get someone to see to it but three Bed and Breakfast rooms were too many to manage, anyway.) Theo has never complained, but I resolve that he will not spend another night in here.
“But where will I go instead?” he whispers. “Do you want me to sleep in the other B & B room?”
The other Bed and Breakfast room hasn’t been occupied since Theo’s companion left it almost two months ago. There might not be any more guests until next Spring—I get very few after September—but I’m not putting Theo in there. I tell him I need to keep it ready on the off-chance of passing trade over the winter weekends. He doesn’t challenge that, but asks again in a small, rather frightened voice where, in that case, he is to be put. Or am I telling him to go?
Go? I hurry to correct any misunderstanding. That is the last thing I want. Theo must be assured that he is welcome, that his remaining here is necessary. So the only and natural course is to move him into Adam’s room at the front.
The rest of the afternoon is spent clearing out Adam’s belongings. I take down the dartboard and the old black-and-white posters of Paris and Madrid. There’s a third poster, another cityscape but I can’t recall which city; certainly it’s not anywhere I’ve been although Adam probably has by now. It could be bloody Barcelona for all I know. “You sound angry,” Theo observes, and I realize I am, even though it was months ago and I thought I’d forgotten it.
It’s not important, I say, meaning it, but nevertheless I’m pleased when I hear Theo demur and tell me that he understands how I feel.
I empty the wardrobe of the clothes I’ve given Adam over the years, making myself notice that he has never worn any of them for more than a day. The stoneware dish of Howard’s goes, too, along with a driftwood carving of a bird that looks both clumsy and malevolent. I dump everything in the room Theo is vacating, where it won’t be in the way. Then I bring all the bedding and add it to the covers already on Adam’s bed, so Theo will surely be warm now. But in case not, I point out the corridor off the landing that leads to the door of my room and tell him he must let me know if he needs any more blankets. To my annoyance the telephone rings downstairs before I finish speaking, interrupting my flow of thought, and when I’ve dealt with the call and am finally able to think straight again, I move Adam’s clothes back again, from the little damp room into the wardrobe in Theo’s new room. Because of course Adam won’t be needing them, but Theo does. Also, Theo’s much more appreciative. Warm practical jumpers, thick shirts, outdoor trousers, country socks. And a pair of sturdy boots, and would you believe it, they’re the right size! I leave him to settle in and tiptoe downstairs to put the kettle on. Howard’s prowling around the kitchen, foraging in the bread bin. Not so fussy now. I make him a nice cup of tea, too, and he’s grateful.
Later that evening, in front of the fire, I apologize to Theo for not giving him the clothes and his own comfortable bedroom much sooner, and his smile tells me it’s all right.
To: deborahstoneyridge@yahoo.com
Sent on thurs 20 oct 2011 at 14.22 EST
Mum it was really good to talk yesterday but I want to check you’re really ok. You sounded pretty out of breath! Think I must’ve caught you at a bad moment even though you said it wasn’t? I didn’t really get the point of all the shifting and sorting you’ve got going on, sounds like you’re going nuts over a bit of clearing out! Don’t go lifting heavy stuff, though, will you?
Don’t mean to sound negative, it’s good you’re thinking about decorating but Mum, shouldn’t you get the rendering fixed and the outside painting finished first? Also if you need a hand with money for stuff like that I can probably help out – I’ve got quite a bit saved up but I don’t necessarily need all of it for a deposit plus I don’t even know yet where I’m going to buy. Mum, you just have to say.
Also you need to talk to Digger about the repair to the wall, he’ll do it at cost even if he won’t pay for it. It’s in his interests plus he knows you can’t do it yourself. OK? DON’T just leave it, ok?
Hopefully I’ll be able to sort some stuff out for you when I’m there at xmas. Lots of love Adam xxx
On Sunday I’m up and dressed by six o’clock. I go out to check the sheep at first light and the world seems full of good, ordinary things, the cold little birds sitting in the sun on the roof ridge, the smell of clean earth. An overnight freeze has cast a sheeting of thin ice over the pools of groundwater around the stiles and the going is easier where the tussocks of reeds are stiff with frost, but on the lea of the hill the dead moor grass has rotted and is slippery now. When I get back, Howard comes half-dressed to the door of his bedroom. He sends me a crooked wave to let me know he’s been waiting, and his face bends into a funny attempt at a smile. I smile back, momentarily fond of him, fonder than I have been for years. I am fonder of myself, too, though for no real reason. Theo slumbers above our heads, oblivious of the necessity in a long marriage for the sharing of apologetic little smiles. I give myself over to helping Howard with his socks.
That’s when Digger turns up. It’s just gone eight o’clock so he wants to catch me in my dressing gown again, I suppose, and I am glad he hasn’t.
I make him wait in the kitchen. When I’ve got Howard dressed and ready and lead him in, Digger’s leaning in his usual place against the draining board. He watches me help Howard to his seat at the table. Not for the first time, I can tell he’s thinking about sex. I know it from a musk he gives off, from the occluded, cloudy look in his eyes, and where he allows them to travel. Or rather he’s wondering about sex, and probably making a number of assumptions. Such as, Howard’s incapable now. Such as, she must be desperate for it. He’s correct about the first, the second I would deny, and he has no idea, none at all, how angry his speculations make me. Nor that, in revenge, I, too, am speculating about how—or whether—he can heave himself on to the mountainous form of his sullen wife Louise, mother of their two boys (who take after her in solidity and dullness rather than their cunning, stringy father). Smiling at my own daring, I imagine Digger and Louise’s coupling performed to the sound of hippo grunts and the slap of slack flesh, and concluded in a collapsed, silent sadness.
I say, “I thought you were going to ring before you came over, to make sure I was in.”
“Sunday morning, reckoned you would be,” he says. “Anyhow, I been up the ladder and looked at your wall. Wear and tear, that is. Tenant’s liability. You’re in breach. I could have you out.”
Howard rocks forward and manages to produce a few words of protest, but in no sensible order. I stroke his hand and shush him gently. “Surely it’s structural damage,” I say to Digger. “And I don’t think we should discuss it here.”
Digger glances at Howard and then fixes dull eyes on me. “No skin off my nose where we discuss it,” he says, lowering his
voice. “Anyhow, it’s going to cost. Got to be paid for whatever way you look at it. Nothing free in this life, eh?”
“It’s structural damage,” I say, in a way that shuts out Howard, who’s struggling to speak again.
Digger snorts and swings himself forward from the draining board. “Got to cover it somehow, Missus. I do you a favor, you does one back.”
My heart is beating hard. Howard has closed his eyes.
In the same quiet voice Digger says, “You says on the phone there’s damp come through on the inside, didn’t you? Want me to take a look upstairs, do you? Whenever’s convenient.”
Theo hasn’t been around all morning and I know he will not appear while Digger’s here, even if I want him to.
“Thursday,” I say. “You can come on Thursday. In the afternoon.”
From: deborahstoneyridge@yahoo.com
To:
Sent on wed 26 oct 2011 at 11.12 GMT
It’s all in hand, Digger came on Sunday and he’s seeing to it. Love, Mum xxx
PS Dad’s going to Jocelyn Lodge tomorrow, did I tell you? We got the letter through last week. They want to change his drugs and get him walking more and so on and it’ll give me a break.
He watched her packing his things, trying not to show the hurry she was in. His clothes, mainly pajamas it looked like, were folded and placed neatly in his case, washbag on top; there wasn’t much. For once she was quiet; none of the babbling she was in the habit of, none of her whispery remarks into the air, or her jerky laughter. She got the zip of the case whisked round and the buckles done and had him sitting in the freezing hall hours before it was time, and when the ambulance men came they said he wouldn’t be needing his own wheelchair. They helped him out by the front door to the ambulance. Deborah followed with the case. When she climbed into the ambulance to say goodbye, it was as an afterthought.
