The Winter's Child

by Cassandra Parkin

  “Because he’s afraid of you.”

  “I’m not bloody surprised! How can he not be afraid of me when you’ve built me up into this horrible boogeyman who can’t be told the truth in case I get angry? What? What?”

  I can’t speak, because the words are too terrible to say. How can you tell your husband He wants you to love him, but he’s afraid of you? How can you tell your husband, and Sometimes I am too?

  “You shout at him when he gets things wrong.”

  “I do not!”

  “Yes, you do, you shout at him when—”

  “I shout at him for not trying. That’s what I can’t stand. The not trying. I want to help him, but I daren’t even speak to him about this, do you know that? I’m frightened to speak to my own son.” I go to put my arms around him, but John shakes me off. “And then I have to steal your phone and guess your password to even find out what’s happening. How is this a marriage? Tell me that.”

  “I was trying to look after you!” This may or may not be true, but it at least sounds plausible, and it will do to shield me while I think of what to say next. “You get so stressed, you have enough to deal with at work. You don’t need me bringing all Joel’s problems to you as well. And it’s getting sorted. He’s getting better, he’s turned a corner, he promised me he’d—”

  “So how do you explain this? Is this you trying not to make me feel stressed?”

  John is holding a handful of papers. I take them from him, my heart thumping. What will I see? The letters from the school? The correspondence with the welfare officer? The report from the consultant? The second report from a different, paid-for consultant, confirming that Joel does not have Asperger’s syndrome, dyslexia, dyspraxia or any other form of identifiable learning disability, but that he does seem ‘young for his age’ and unduly anxious, especially about his relationship with his father? I force myself to look at the papers instead of John’s face, and find I’m looking at a list of seemingly random scraps of information:

  Searched for Lucca Princes Ave opening times

  Searched for Da Gianni Princes Ave

  Searched for book improving father son relationship

  Searched for bus times Anlaby Road

  Searched for navy maxi dress size 10

  Searched for bad relationship father son

  Searched for nude block heels size 6

  Searched for risk factors father being violent to son

  Searched for warning signs father dangerous to son

  Searched for non-bio father killing son

  The feeling of violation is instant and total, as if John’s been spying on me getting dressed or using the bathroom, catching me in all the moments when I think I’m alone. It’s so strong that it almost wipes out my shame.

  I don’t mean to whimper, but I can’t stop myself. John is so big and so strong, and I’m not used to his anger being directed at me. The small hurt sound makes me despise myself, but it has the unintended effect of softening John, so that instead of standing tall and terrifying he puts his arm around me and leads me to the sofa. Hoping this means I’ve won him over, I try to kiss him, to melt against him, but he won’t have it, he pushes me away, and I have to keep facing his eyes. His hurt, wounded, frightened eyes.

  “Why are you looking for all this stuff?”

  “I… It was just something I heard on the radio, nothing to do with you and Joel—”

  “The truth. Please. At least be honest with me. Do you actually think I might hurt our son? Do you really think I don’t love him as much because he’s adopted?”

  “Sometimes you get so angry. You expect such a lot of him.”

  “Expecting him to go to school and make an effort is a lot? For God’s sake it’s only GCSEs, it’s not exactly challenging stuff, is it? And I’m not expecting A* grades across the board, just on course for a respectable C in five or six subjects would do it!” His voice is rising again, the rage that I first glimpsed when Joel was small and that has grown along with our son, like a dark twin that lives inside the man I love.

  “Please don’t shout. Please don’t. That’s what scares me. I know you love Joel, I know you’d never hurt him—”

  “Don’t lie. If you knew that you wouldn’t be googling all this stuff.”

  “I just… Sometimes I get worried.”

  “Susannah. We can’t live like this.”

  “Don’t say that.” I want to hide my face in his shoulder but I’m not sure if he’ll let me. “We have a good marriage. I love you, you’re my husband and I love you.”

  “A good marriage? Okay, so here’s what I see. You’re sneaking around behind my back. You’re lying to me and keeping secrets. Your search history tells me everything I need to know about what you think of me.”

  “That’s not what I think of you, I was just worried, that’s all, but I trust you, of course I do—”

  “Look at what you’re doing to me. Look at the man you’re turning me into. I had to check your phone to find out what’s really going on, for God’s sake, I had to go into your computer when you were out and look at your search history. I don’t want to be like that but what choice do I have? How am I supposed to be married to you if you don’t trust me?” He rubs at his face and hair in bewilderment. “It feels like you’re having an affair. Like I’m trying to catch you with him all the time, checking up on where you’ve been and when you’ve been there, then asking you questions to see if you’ll tell me the truth. Only if you were having an affair, that might actually be easier because I could beg you to stop seeing him and we could work on things together. But you won’t ever stop loving Joel more than me, will you? He’s always going to come between us.”

  “All parents put their children first! That’s how it’s supposed to be!”

  “Is that what you’re doing? Putting him first? Or is it shutting me out? I mean, is this what you thought our lives were going to be like once we had a child? That you’d be in one corner with him, and I’d be in another corner by myself, and the two of you would be ganging up on me and keeping me out of everything?”

  “You sound jealous.”

  “I am jealous. Okay? I am very, very jealous of my own son. He’s ruining our relationship. Turning you against me. I don’t know how much longer I can stand it. Something has to change or I don’t know what I’m going to do. Do you understand?”

  His voice is very low, very calm, but in that quiet and that calmness there’s something that turns me cold. He reaches out his hands towards me. He puts them against my neck. Sometimes he does this as a way of drawing me close towards him for a kiss. Is that what he’s doing now?

  “Are you listening, love?” he repeats.

  And then there’s an explosion of sound and movement as Joel erupts into the room. He’s wild-eyed and flailing, spitting insults and droplets, long skinny arms windmilling around. He looks insane. He looks furious. He looks terrified. He looks as if he might kill someone. It’s not until he flings the slight weight of his wrath against John’s immovable bulk and claws wildly at his hands that I can make sense of the words he’s shouting. Don’t you hurt my mum don’t you dare don’t you fucking dare I’ll kill you first, you bastard.

  I can’t quite unravel what happens next because it all happens too fast for me to follow. Or maybe it’s not the speed that confuses me but the awfulness, the horror of seeing your son attack your husband because he thought he was trying to kill you, and then your husband, in his turn, using his superior weight and strength to subdue his teenage son. I only know that within the space of a few seconds, John has Joel pinned face down on the couch, one hand holding his wrists, one knee pressed against Joel’s greenstick thighs, the other pressed against his slender back, while I stand uselessly in the corner with my hands over my mouth. I had no idea John knew how to do that.

  “All right, then, fella.” John’s voice is quiet and comforting. “Take a deep breath. That’s it for now, okay? Good lad.” Joel doesn’t speak, but John must sense som
e relaxing of tension within him because he lifts his knee off Joel’s leg, then gradually releases his wrists. “Now, what was that about?”

  “You were trying to strangle my mum.”

  John forces a laugh.

  “Of course I wasn’t! I was going to kiss her, okay? I was going to kiss her. That’s all. Susannah, will you tell our daft-head son here that we were just kissing?”

  You can hold a lifetime of silence in the fractional second between two breaths. When John looks at me, I know that if I let him down now, our marriage will end tonight.

  “Of course we were just kissing. Joel Moel, how can you possibly think Dad was going to hurt me? When has he ever? Now come on, on your feet.”

  “And while you’re here,” says John, “maybe it’s a good time to have a chat about—”

  “No. Let’s just all have some biscuits and a drink, okay? John, do you want tea? Joel, hot chocolate?” John frowns, but I don’t care. I’ve done the right thing, I’ve backed him up when he really needed me to and now I get my reward, which is the freedom to overrule him. “We’ll talk in the morning, all right? Right now we’re all a bit upset. Aren’t we?” My laugh is just right, light and indulgent but with the weight of authority that tells them I’m in charge now, and they’re both silly little boys. My two silly little boys. My two silly little boys who wanted to kill each other. I want to ask Joel to come and give me a hand, but I look again at John’s face and decide not to push my luck.

  When I return to the living room with the tray, Joel and John are at opposite ends of the sofa, staring straight ahead, arms folded. But that’s all right. I know how to fix this.

  I wedge myself between them and turn on a quiz show. Then I take John’s right hand and Joel’s left and hold them, lightly and loosely, stroking each finger in turn. The tension between them gradually dissipates. When Joel finishes his hot chocolate and gets up to leave, the mood’s lightened enough for John to murmur a brief Night night, Joel Moel, and for Joel to grunt something back that might be Night, Dad. We’re past another crisis. I’ve kept them safe for another night. Tomorrow is always another day.

  In bed, John reaches for me with an urgency and fervour I had forgotten could exist between us. Afterwards, drifting hazily on the slack tide of sleep, I wonder for a drowsy moment if he needed to re-assert his importance to me, by touching me in the only way that he is permitted but Joel is not.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Thursday 7th December 2017

  “I need to see you,” I whisper into my phone. The hushed tones and needy incantation of the secret lover.

  “Why you whispering, soft lass? Hang on a minute—” Seashell sounds as Jackie cups her hand over the phone, and her voice, muffled but still comprehensible. “Fuck’s sake, Lee, I’m on the phone to Susannah. Yeah, Susannah. No, she don’t like Susie. Or Suze. Oh, just give over, will you?” Lee’s replies are too distant for me to hear but I can guess from their cadence what they contain. He’s mocking me for my perceived poshness, for coming from a richer part of town than he and Jackie, and for speaking with an accent that belongs to the East Riding rather than the city centre. Underneath all of this is a current of sexual predation. Lee knows that he is stronger than me and would relish the opportunity to prove it. The thought makes me shudder.

  “Sorry about that.” Jackie’s back with me. “So what do you want to do?”

  “I want you to come out with me.”

  “We going round town?”

  “No… I want you to come to Beverley with me for the afternoon.”

  “What, shopping or something, you mean? It takes ages on the bus, do we have to? What’s wrong with town?”

  “Don’t worry about the bus, I’ll give you a lift. It’s just I’m going to meet someone, and I wondered if you’d come with me.”

  “What sort of someone? Like a date?”

  I remember Nick’s skin against mine, the way he looked and felt and smelled and tasted and sounded. I want to do it again, what we had wasn’t anything like enough, but I don’t know if I dare to ask.

  “No, it’s not a date, it’s… um—”

  “Come on, you can tell me.” Jackie’s voice is tender and coaxing. “I won’t laugh.”

  “I’ve found someone who can help. With… ” I force myself to say it. “That day at the park. You remember? When I… when I—”

  “Oh! Oh, okay. Well, that’s really good. I’m pleased. Well done. God, really well done. I’m proud of you.”

  “So will you come with me?”

  “How can I help?” His voice imbues this trite phrase with genuine meaning, as if he understands me to the core and really does want to help, as if helping is his true work and mission and the money that will change hands is simply a formal prelude to what really matters, as empty and meaningless as a handshake.

  “I was wondering if I could book an appointment with you.” My voice sounds hoarse and breathy, as if I’m trying to buy drugs or set up a meeting with my lover while a bystander listens idly in. “I’ve had some bad experiences and I think I need to talk to someone.”

  “Okay. Just give me a minute and I’ll get my diary, and we’ll take a look and see what we can work out.”

  A small reprieve as he disappears to find his diary. To stop myself from ending the call, I try to imagine what his diary might be like. A large red-bound book with luxurious gold custom lettering and thick creamy pages, perhaps, filled with exquisite lettering in old-fashioned blue ink.

  “Hello? Thanks for waiting.” I hear pages turning. “So… actually, forgive me for asking this, but I have the feeling we’ve maybe spoken before? Quite a long time ago?”

  “I hope me mam’s all right with Georgie.” Jackie fumbles restlessly with her phone, flicking the screen on and off with deft touches of her fingers. Her nails, freshly painted with a new temperature-sensitive lacquer, are slowly turning a deeper pink in the warmth of my car. My heart thumps with excitement and guilt.

  “Was she okay about taking her?”

  “Okay-ish. She was going round to see her friend for lunch at the pub, but her friend’s coming to her instead. I think they’re getting M&S ready meals. God knows what Georgie’ll make of it. I packed some jars but you know what nannas are like. Probably come back full of those foamy pink pig sweets. I’ll just send her a text.”

  I watch enviously as she taps out the words on the screen. So many people who she matters to. So many people whose lives she’s a part of. My envy makes me feel better about the deception I’m practising on her. If she has more than me, then it’s okay for me to trick her into going along with what I want. She won’t mind, not really, she’s my friend after all, and friends forgive each other. Oh God, this has to be all right. It has to be.

  “I thought we’d park on the Westwood,” I say. Does my voice sound hoarse? “The car parks are going to be rammed.”

  “If you like. You sure we won’t get stuck in the mud though? I know it’s free parking but you want to be careful parking on grass, it happened to Lee once. Had to call the recovery truck to pull him out.”

  “It’ll be fine, the ground’s all frozen anyway. And it’s not far to walk, his offices are nearby.”

  “No worries.” Jackie shows me her feet, warmly encased in sheepskin. “I’ve got my shopping boots on.”

  The edge of the Westwood common is already busy with dozens of other cars, waiting like dogs for their owners. I steer the car carefully between the frozen ruts of mud and park just beneath a signpost (It is forbidden to park more than ten feet from the highway by order of the pasture masters). “I just thought it might be a bit easier than queuing for a space for ages.” When we climb out, the mud is crisp and frozen beneath our feet.

  “God, what’s wrong with you today?” Jackie looks at me shrewdly across the top of my car. The cold turns her breath white and pure. “You got something you want to tell me?”

  I’ve thought through every part of my plan apart from this bit. Now I realise this is
the only bit that matters.

  “No. Well, no, not really.”

  “Not really means Yes, but I’m too chicken to say it. Look, is he not all right with me coming in with you? Cos I don’t mind, I’ll take myself into town for a bit while you go in if you want.”

  “No, it’s not that, he’ll be fine with you coming in too.”

  “So what is it then? What have you done? Is there something dodgy about this bloke, or what?” She stares at me for a minute. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, no. No, no, no.”

  “What? I haven’t said anything yet—”

  “He’s not a proper counsellor at all, is he?” Her face is as hard as iron, as pitiless as marble. “Jesus, Susannah, you have to be kidding me, you have not gone and booked us an appointment with a fucking psychic.”

  “I’m… um… My name’s Susannah Harper.”

  A long silence beats out its slow pulses between us.

  “I know it’s been a long time,” I whisper.

  “Is your husband with you right now?”

  The question catches me by surprise. “No, we split up, just after we… I’m here on my own, I live on my own. He wouldn’t come with me.”

  “I gather you decided to keep going with the blog.” His voice is carefully neutral, as if this is simply small talk rather than a reminder of our only dreadful meeting.

  I close my eyes against the sharp sting of shame. They’re liars. They’re frauds. They’re leeches. All those months and years of vitriol.

  “I’ll understand if you don’t want to see me,” I falter. “I know how it must look but I promise, I absolutely promise, I’m not looking for material. If you meet me, I promise I won’t write about it afterwards. I’ll sign anything you want promising I won’t talk about it to anyone. I just—” the tears that shatter my voice are a curious blend of the natural and the manufactured. I’m trying to engage his sympathies, but there’s something in them that’s real and raw too.

  “Please don’t be angry with me,” I beg. Jackie slams the car door and strides off down the road. “I just really need you to come with me, just this one thing, I promise you I won’t ask you for anything else and there’s no one else who can come with me—”