Unravelling

by Lindsay Stanberry-Flynn

  At ten-thirty she heard Cordy calling for her and rushed upstairs.

  ‘Mummy, I need a wee wee.’

  She took her to the lavatory and tucked her back into bed.

  ‘Can Daddy come up to say goodnight?’

  Vanessa stroked her hair back from her forehead. ‘He will, darling, as soon as he’s home.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘I promise.’

  Vanessa had fallen asleep, her head on her arms, when she heard the front door slam. She squinted at the clock: almost midnight. She got to her feet, as the kitchen door banged open. Gerald stood there, framed in the doorway, like a character coming on stage.

  ‘What are you doing up?’ The thickness of his voice told her he’d been drinking.

  ‘Waiting for you.’

  ‘What the hell for?’

  ‘I thought we could talk.’

  ‘Talk?’ He barked out a laugh. ‘Christ preserve me from women who want to talk.’

  She went over to stand by the sink out of the way. He looked dreadful: hair wilder than ever, pouches of flesh sagging under his eyes.

  He began rifling through the cupboards, pulling out tins, packets of flour and sugar, some of which split as he shoved them on to the floor. Foodstuffs sprayed out behind him, like earth from a dog searching for a buried bone.

  ‘What are you looking for?’

  ‘Whisky.’

  ‘There’s a bottle in the cupboard under the stairs.’

  ‘What the fuck’s it doing there? You stupid Irish housewife.’ It seemed as if he knew which words would hurt her most. He went out and she could hear him shouting, cursing, throwing things around.

  The cupboard under the stairs was where most things in the house ended up at some time or another. There were items that belonged there: the vacuum cleaner, the ironing board, the children’s coats, a sack of potatoes, but things as diverse as Esme’s lost teddy, Gerald’s leather jacket, Christmas decorations, library books had all been discovered there. It was at the back of that miscellany that she’d concealed the last bottle of whisky Gerald had bought. It was pointless; when he was in this sort of mood, he could find alcohol with the skill of a sniffer-dog and having to search for it only enraged him. But drink made him a different person. No, that wasn’t true. He became more of a person. He was the part of him that usually glittered at the edges of his personality – unpredictable and dangerous. When he was drunk, he became only those things.

  He came back into the kitchen and slammed the bottle on the table.

  ‘Cordy wants you to say goodnight.’ Gerald adored Cordy and a few moments with his daughter was bound to improve his mood.

  ‘She’ll be asleep.’

  ‘At least you’ll be able to tell her in the morning that you went in to her.’

  ‘I can tell her that anyway.’

  ‘You can’t lie to her.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Vanessa.’ He took two glasses from the shelf and poured a large measure into each. He held one up to her.

  She didn’t move.

  ‘Here, take it,’ he said.

  She shook her head.

  ‘I said, take it.’

  ‘You know I don’t drink whisky.’

  ‘It’s about time you did.’ He came towards her, moving with exaggerated care, but still managing to bang in to the table. He put one hand to the back of her head, and she thought he was going to kiss her. But then he brought the tumbler up to her lips. She clamped them shut. He pushed the glass against them, forcing them open and the glass banged against her teeth. Pain shot through them and up into her gums. Her mouth was full of the hot foul-tasting liquid. Some of it spilled out and trickled down her chin. The rest went down her throat making her gag.

  She put her hands on his chest and pushed him away. His size meant he could easily overwhelm her if he wanted to. She got ready for him to grab her again.

  Instead he laughed. ‘So there is still some spirit in you.’ He dragged out a chair from the table and slumped down on it.

  She didn’t want to turn her back on him, but she needed to get rid of the taste of the whisky. She cocked her head under the tap and let water run into her mouth. The cold hurt her teeth.

  She sat down at the table opposite him. Not too close; when he’d been drinking he always complained about her suffocating him. If she could get him to come to bed and sleep it off, they could talk in the morning. He was always full of apologies when he drank too much, but she’d never seen him as bad as this, not even when he’d been sacked from college.

  He finished his drink and put his hand on the bottle.

  ‘Don’t have any more, Gerald. Let’s go to bed.’

  He poured himself another large measure.

  ‘Gerald?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Something’s obviously getting to you.’

  ‘Okay, have it your way, everything’s wrong.’

  ‘Everything?’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, stop parroting what I say.’ He grabbed the glass and drank from it.

  ‘Tell me. I’m your wife. We should share problems.’

  He gave a snort of derision. ‘Is that the sort of claptrap you get from those books you’ve always got your nose stuck in?’

  She had no idea he was aware of the books Lizzie gave her. ‘If you read some of those, you’d see how badly you’re treating me.’

  He started to laugh. ‘Ooh, have I been naughty? Are you telling me off?’

  ‘Don’t be so sarcastic.’

  ‘Are you going to spank me? I could do with a good spanking. The sex has got dull lately.’

  She put her hands to her face. Her skin was smarting as if he’d slapped her. What did he mean the sex was dull? That was the one thing she relied on. Even after the worst of their fights, they’d always made love, sometimes angrily and aggressively, biting each other’s flesh until they drew blood, but connecting, still connecting with their bodies while their minds were estranged.

  ‘What’s wrong with the sex?’ Her voice seemed to come from somewhere above her head.

  ‘I don’t like making love to a nagging housewife.’

  ‘Is that how you see me?’

  ‘Look at yourself, Vanessa. Tell me what you see.’

  ‘I have to look after the house, there’s the children … if you did more – ’

  ‘See what I mean. Listen to you – nag, nag, nag. The girl I met was a wild child with magical auburn curls, a beautiful face, dreams, talent. What are you now?’

  ‘Your wife. The mother of your children. The woman you love.’

  He shook his head. ‘Not any more. The woman I loved has gone, submerged in all this … ’ he waved his hand at the washing drying on the clothes horse, the saucepans on the draining board, the pile of ironing waiting to be done ‘… detritus.’ He struggled to pronounce the word. As if that reminded him that he hadn’t had a drink for some minutes, he sloshed more whisky into his glass.

  ‘You might as well know,’ he said, twisting the tumbler and holding it up to the light as if he was admiring the pattern it made, ‘I fucked Carla Scott tonight.’

  Vanessa realised that she was holding her breath, had been holding it during Gerald’s last speech. Her chest was tight and her lungs were starting to ache. She could carry on holding it. Could you kill yourself by holding your breath? She’d go blue in the face and then she’d pass out. Gerald would be sorry then. Or would he? He’d probably just be angry. Say it was typical of her, such a suburban thing to do. But while she held her breath, she had to focus on the pain in her lungs. That other pain, the pain she knew was waiting for her, which was going to drag her down into a hole, darker and deeper than she could begin to imagine, couldn’t get at her.

  Seventeen

  The bubble of noise bounced along the hallway, up the stairs and burst into Cordy’s bedroom. At once she was
wide-awake. The sheet beneath her felt damp. She stuck her hand between her legs and raised her fingers to her nose. Wee. Last time she’d been checked for nits, she’d heard the school nurse and her mother whispering, something about ‘reverting to babyhood’. She’d wriggled out of the nurse’s grasp as the hard steel comb raked across her scalp. Baby! It was what she said to her little sister Esme at least thirty times a day. The nurse had a lump on her top lip. It had a long black hair sprouting from it. Served her right, Cordy thought.

  The sound of voices from downstairs got louder. Her father must be home and he hadn’t come up to see her. Her mother had promised he would. She focused on a spot up near the ceiling. She must concentrate. She had to keep her eyes on that dark stain just above the picture frame, or her gaze would swivel to the left to the top of the wardrobe where ‘it’ crouched, waiting to pounce. ‘Don’t look,’ she told herself. ‘It can’t make you.’ Sometimes it worked and in the mornings she’d see the big canvas bag with its floppy handles and brass zip that was stored up there. But on other nights, when she couldn’t stand it a minute longer, when she gave in, ‘it’ would be there, its long arms swinging, its teeth yellow and sharp.

  The voices were filling her head. It felt as if it would burst. Just like that time her friend Amy had dared her to hold her breath for as long as she could and she’d fainted.

  She decided to count … nine, ten, eleven … it was easy, even Esme could get to twenty … she carried on …39, 40, 41 … anything to block out the noise … 57, 58 … Her counting had got really good now. Once she’d got to 172 before the shouting stopped.

  She shifted her head and looked towards a mound of blankets in the bed next to her. Esme always slept with her knees pulled up under her, her bottom stuck up in the air. Her face was turned away, but Cordy could hear her steady breathing, see the pink ribbons wound round her pigtails. For a moment she forgot to count, and then she heard the silence. She held her breath and pressed her hands against her heart. Lucy Phillips swore you could get rid of a stitch like that.

  She waited until it seemed safe to get out of bed. The lino was icy cold and she hopped from one foot to the other. She pulled off her wet nightdress and stuffed it behind the chest of drawers. The window was ajar and a gust of air sucked at the curtains and tickled her bare skin. Reaching into the laundry basket, she found the T-shirt and knickers she’d worn yesterday. She drew back the blankets and tugged at the sheet, dragging it free from the mattress. She was heaping the covers back on the bed when the noise started all over again. Her father’s voice. Louder and louder. A moment’s silence. She strained to hear her mother. Nothing. Then that deep booming again.

  She tiptoed to the door and put her hand to the knob. The brass felt cold and smooth and filled her palm. She made sure not to pull the door back too far. If you opened it wide, the hinges squeaked. Her father’s voice rumbled from beneath her like an approaching tube train. She was terrified of the vibration and whooshing rush of air through the tunnel that happened when the carriages neared the station: she’d bury her face in her mother’s skirt. What was Mummy doing now? Why couldn’t she hear her?

  Cordy inched towards the stairs. The creak of the floorboards usually gave the game away. Tonight she was in luck. She lowered herself on to the top stair. She clasped her knees and waited.

  A glow from the street shone through the fanlight above the front door. A runner stretching the length of the hallway covered the quarry tiles. It was frayed in places and her mother was always saying they’d break their necks one day. Her father’s black trench coat was draped over the hallstand. On the opposite side his fedora hung from one of the brass hooks. She was sure that’s what it was called because she remembered saying thedora and her mother telling her ‘It’s ‘f’. Put your top teeth over your bottom lip. Look, like this.’

  She heard the kitchen door open and footsteps on the bottom flight of stairs. Her father appeared in the hallway. His long dark hair looked messy as if it hadn’t been combed for days. The school nurse would tell him off if she saw it. Cordy wondered if he’d been checked for nits.

  She called out and her father looked up, his black eyes boring into hers. ‘Daddy,’ she began, ‘what’s … ?’ She didn’t get any further because he held up his hand, his massive hand which she loved to tuck hers into as she skipped along the street with him. He moved his fingers up to his mouth, touched them with his lips and then blew a kiss towards her up the stairs. She watched it leave his mouth, reached out to catch it and closed her eyes while she held it to her own lips. When she opened them again, the hall was empty.

  Eighteen

  Vanessa prepares a bath while Gerald dozes on the sofa. She pours in lavender herbal essence and watches bubbles form under the stream of water. Condensation creeps across the mirror. A ghostly sensuous mist blots out the everyday world. She usually loves the ritual of teasing her hair into the elastic band, slipping out of her robe, feeling the steam curl round her nakedness, easing herself into the scented water. Now her hand agitates the foam that will soon cover Gerald’s frail body.

  When he first asked if he could stay, she pictured him in her home: on the sofa in the sitting room, in the kitchen, climbing the stairs to the bathroom. She forced her image of him to walk along the streets of Lyme Regis, her streets. No. It would never work out. ‘You’ll manage all right, Gerald,’ she said. ‘We’ll get help in. I’ll come up every week and stay overnight.’ But as the time went on, Gerald grew morose and withdrawn. He failed to put on any weight. When she wasn’t there, he spent most of the time in bed. In the end, she agreed on a trial run.

  ‘Gerald!’ she calls. ‘Bath’s ready.’ And she goes upstairs.

  She’s put him in the room that used to be Esme’s; he can use the bathroom next to it. Her bedroom, which runs the length of the cottage on the top floor under the eaves, has a shower room off it. There will be no bumping into each other in dressing gowns, no toothbrushes nuzzling each other in the mug.

  She waits a while, showering and sorting her clothes out, until she goes downstairs. The bathroom door is open. She listens outside his room. Nothing. She looks in. He’s propped up on the pillows, the duvet tucked round his waist. His top half is bare.

  He holds out his hand. ‘Come on, I won’t bite.’

  ‘I said no physical contact.’

  He smiles. ‘Ooh, Miss Prim. I only want to say thank you. You’re a darling for letting me stay.’

  She approaches the bed. She sees how thin his once-broad shoulders are, how the collarbones stick out from pockets of pasty-looking skin. His chest is a mass of grey hair, and she wants to feel repulsion, but instead an unexpected tenderness hits her. He clutches her hand and his is clammy from the bath. ‘I always knew I didn’t deserve you, Nessa, but I didn’t know how much.’

  ‘Gerald,’ she says warningly.

  ‘Okay, okay. I’ll be good, but surely I can say thank you?’

  She pulls her hand from his. ‘Yes, but sleep now, or you’ll have a relapse.’

  ‘You’re the boss.’

  By midday, it’s stiflingly hot in the shop and the pencil is sticky in Vanessa’s fingers. Her brain seems to have glued up as well.

  ‘Let’s have a break for lunch, Josie. Would you like to come home with me? I can put together some salad and things.’

  ‘What about this place?’

  ‘Nobody’s going to come in today; they’re all on the beach. We can talk work at home.’

  ‘Isn’t your husband – ?’

  ‘My ex-husband … ’

  ‘Sorry, it’s just my mum and dad are divorced and they can’t bear to hear each other’s names, let alone stay in the same house. That sounds so civilised.’

  ‘I don’t know about that. Let’s get going. I’ll die if I have to stay in this heat a minute longer.’

  Gerald is reading in the living room. He’s dressed and had a shave. He gets up when they come in, and Vanessa can see he’s trying not to l
imp as he walks towards them. He always was one to put on a performance for a pretty girl.

  ‘This is Josie Anderson who works with me,’ Vanessa tells him and turns to Josie. ‘Gerald Blackstone, my ex-husband.’

  They shake hands.

  ‘You look familiar,’ Josie says. ‘I’m sure I read an article about you in one of my art magazines.’

  ‘Possibly. I was a sculptor.’

  ‘Are, Gerald,’ Vanessa says. ‘You are a sculptor.’

  ‘I remember your name,’ Josie says. ‘I thought it sounded like a character from Dickens or something.’

  Gerald gives one of his loud booming laughs that makes you want to join in.

  Josie screws up her nose. ‘I shouldn’t have said that, should I? It’s not very polite.’

  ‘I’m not much good at politeness either,’ Gerald says. ‘Vanessa will tell you.’

  ‘You just enjoy making people feel uncomfortable. You used to anyway.’

  ‘Ah, but you only see the real person when someone feels uncomfortable.’

  Over lunch, Josie questions Gerald about his work. He waves his hands expansively as he searches for the words he wants. Josie, leaning forward on the table, roll and cheese pushed to one side, is clearly absorbed. Vanessa watches him, pleased that the first person he’s met, in what she knows he’s thought of as a provincial backwater, is someone as lively and attractive as Josie.

  Vanessa gets into the habit of going home at lunchtime. One day there’s an aroma of fresh bread as she opens the front door. Her eye instantly takes in the plates and cutlery on the table, the salad bowl, the crusty bloomer, its ridges speckled with seeds.

  Gerald stands in the kitchen doorway.

  ‘What a wonderful smell,’ she says.

  ‘I found that bakery along the path,’ he tells her. ‘I watched the man baking. Do you know there’s been a mill there for centuries?’