Christian wasn’t home yet and Ruth found herself feeling excited to see him for the first time in years. She wanted to see whether the message had been an aberration or if her husband had fundamentally changed. But even if he had, she didn’t know if she could she trust it or be sure that he wouldn’t revert to his same brash self a year or two down the line.
Ruth went to the kitchen to start on supper after Aggie had taken the kids up and her parents were safely dispatched to chairs in the garden with large glasses of wine. She was a good cook but she hardly ever did it properly any more. She still knocked up pasta sauces and salad dressings, but they were easy. Since Aggie had arrived she had hardly even done that and cooking was a bit like childcare, you got out of the habit so easily. Now, as she chopped herbs and rubbed them into the salmon, she realised that she’d missed it. That all of these little routines and rituals were good for you, kept you grounded and sane, gave you a place in the world. A thought butted her mind like a bird at a window: were all the things that made life easier actually making it harder?
The door slammed and she turned to see Christian. He came through into the kitchen and he looked as deflated as he’d sounded on the phone. As if he’d lost weight since she’d seen him that morning, which of course wasn’t possible. He was pale and the bags under his eyes were dark and visible.
‘Hello,’ he said and as he spoke she knew what it was she was seeing; Christian was nervous, properly scared for maybe the first time in his life.
Ruth’s initial response was to make him feel better, but she checked herself. ‘Hi.’ Her excitement from earlier fluttered in her chest, but something which resembled embarrassment held back her words. If they had both realised something new today then did that make them different people?
‘Have you had a good day?’
Ruth tried to answer him, but her cheeks flushed and she turned away to stop him seeing.
‘I’ll just go up and say goodnight to the kids before I see your parents.’
Ruth let him leave the room and wondered what was going on.
Christian hadn’t had any idea what to expect as he made his way home. Ruth hadn’t called him back, which he guessed was nothing more than he deserved, but it still hurt. The realisation that his wife had probably stopped loving him made him feel as if he’d swallowed a rock. He had rehearsed some speeches on the way home but even as he was running through them in his head he knew he wouldn’t be able to say any of them. He was dreading sitting round a table with Ruth’s parents as if nothing was wrong. He supposed it would be worse if Ruth had told them, but he knew his wife well enough to know how unlikely that was.
Christian turned the door knob to his daughter’s room and saw that Betty was already asleep. She looked so pretty lying with such abandon in her bed it made him smile. He wanted to give her a kiss but he was worried it would wake her, so he shut the door again and looked in on Hal, who was also asleep. He went on into his bedroom to change.
It was undeniably odd, his life. What was it all for if you didn’t even get to see your children once a day? If the only complete time you ever spent with them was once a year on a fortnight’s holiday in some over-priced European country when you tried to re-introduce yourself to them.
As he exchanged one set of clothes for another he looked at the tree which stood majestically outside their home, fluttering constantly in the view from their bedroom window. It was one of many, positioned like soldiers down their road, guarding time. It was huge, probably hundreds of years old. Christian sat on the bed, his socks lamely still on his feet, his stomach folding over onto itself. The tree would be there for so much longer than he would, it would outlast even his children, maybe the house itself. For the first time he was aware of the others who had lived within these walls, the ghosts of all the past lives in his home. He felt as insubstantial as an evaporating puddle on the floor of a forest. He was falling and no one was there to catch him.
Eventually Christian went downstairs to greet his in-laws. Ruth was sitting outside with them and he could smell something lovely on the warmth of the air. Their greetings were effusive, she definitely hadn’t told them.
‘Sit down,’ said his father-in-law, ‘and let me pour you a glass of this rather fine red I brought.’
‘No thanks, George. I’m just going to have some juice.’ Ruth turned to look at him. ‘Juice?’ she repeated and he was pained by her surprise. ‘Are you ill?’
‘No, I don’t feel like drinking.’ That was another thing Christian had decided during the day, to cut down, maybe even stop drinking altogether. And to defi nitely stop smoking. He couldn’t explain his train of thought. He was pretty sure he didn’t have a problem with any substance, but he definitely used them to control himself in some way. Or maybe that was wrong, maybe he used them to allow himself to legitimately lose control, to negate responsibility. It resonated with what Ruth had said to him the previous night. It was potentially something else she was right about. He had yet to decide.
Supper would have been enjoyable if he hadn’t had an executioner’s noose hanging over him all night. Ruth looked incongruously relaxed and she drank more than her usual two glasses so that even her shoulders seemed to drop a bit. But she also looked undeniably tired and Christian was relieved when she announced she had to go to bed at ten, so releasing all of them. It took another twenty minutes to negotiate his life before he found himself lying next to his wife, who seemed to be already asleep. He lay on his back with his arms behind his head, desperate to say something, but not sure what that thing should be.
But Ruth spoke, with her back still turned to him. ‘That was an odd message you left me.’
‘I feel odd.’
‘What did you mean?’
‘What I said.’ He stared into the bluey, shifting blackness, allowing his eyes to get used to it. ‘I am sorry, Ruthie, for the things I said. I know it’s bullshit to keep apologising about Sarah, even though I am sorry. And I get it, you know, about how whether or not I physically did anything with her is irrelevant. If you give me another chance I won’t ever put you through anything like this again. I’m going to be a different man, better, I promise you.’
‘I’ve heard your promises before.’
‘I know you have, but now I can see that I didn’t mean them. I thought I did, but I didn’t, not properly.’ Ruth didn’t answer and he weighed up whether he should say the next thing to her. ‘I called Sarah today to apologise for all the things I said to her and for letting her believe, well, anything about me. Her dad answered and he called me a pompous twat and said he hoped you’d leave me and that I’d end up lonely and miserable.’
‘Do you expect me to feel sorry for you?’ Christian could tell Ruth was making an effort to keep her voice neutral.
‘Of course not. I mean, I don’t know, I’m trying to be completely honest. To show you that I’m not going to hide anything from you again.’
Ruth sat up at this, hugging her knees to her chest, and Christian thought she looked so fragile he could probably snap her in two with one hand. ‘You don’t expect me to forgive you tonight, do you?’
‘No. But please don’t make me leave, Ruth. I can’t bear to not come home to you and the kids. Let me stay and prove all of this to you.’
She turned to him now and he could see she was crying. He was desperate to hold her but he didn’t dare. ‘I’m so tired, Christian, I feel drained. And I know I say that a lot. You’re not the only one who’s been thinking.’ She pulled a breath into her body. ‘I’m sorry, too. I know it’s not all you, but I don’t know if I can forgive you a second time, I don’t know how it would make me feel about myself. There’s so much going on in my head at the moment, not all about you . . . ’
‘What else?’
‘My job, but Hal mainly. And Aggie. I can’t put my finger on it, but I don’t like her.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, I think I’m going to ask her to leave. I know it sounds absurd, especially no
w, but I’m not comfortable with how she is with Hal or how he is with her.’
‘Why haven’t you spoken to me about this?’
‘I’ve tried, but you’re so dismissive. You make me feel like I’m mad.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Christian knew this to be a legitimate accusation, but still wondered how getting rid of a perfectly capable nanny made any sense right now.
‘But of course you and Aggie can’t leave at the same time, it would be too confusing for the children.’
‘I think we should look at everything. I’m not sure we’re living in the right way.’
‘The right way?’ Ruth made a hollow sound. ‘You sound like a Viva tagline.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘Not really. If you know the right way to live you’ll solve all our problems.’
‘Okay, but don’t you feel maybe we’ve got it wrong?’
‘You know I do. I’ve been saying it for years.’
‘Ruth, please give me another chance. Let’s try to sort this out together.’
Ruth lay back down as heavily as her slight body allowed and the atmosphere shifted, so that Christian knew he had misjudged some aspect of their exchange. ‘God, you’re annoying,’ she said. ‘We’re not closing a fucking television deal here. You can’t talk your way out of it.’
‘I’m not trying to get out of anything, Ruth. I’m trying to make it better.’
‘Don’t you think it might be a bit late for that now?’
‘I hope not.’
‘I’ve been bloody swimming upstream all on my own for fucking years now. Dragging everything behind me while you prat around on the bank having fun and now you’re suddenly all serious, like you’ve got all the answers and you expect me to go, Oh, okay, Christian, stay, help us all out of this shit hole. It’s been what, a few hours, since you had your grand awakening and you expect me to believe that’s it, a new you.’
‘I don’t expect . . . ’
‘Actually, shut up.’ Ruth sounded angry now. ‘I’m tired and it’s our son’s birthday tomorrow. I need to sleep.’
Christian let her roll away from him. He knew better than to pursue the argument tonight. At least he’d said part of what he meant.
Agatha felt anxious when she woke at six the next morning. She had spent most of the night in the tiny box room going over and over all her preparations. Mentally repacking the knapsack that was hidden in the airing cupboard, containing all her possessions, plus most of Hal’s, and both their passports. She was unsure how water-tight her plan was and worried by how long the media coverage might continue. She envisaged months of hiding themselves away. Months of not returning any looks, of crossing the street from penetrating eyes, of checking over her shoulder before letting them into their home, of flitting into the night, of jumping every time a policeman turned the corner. And all this whilst keeping Hal happy.
It had been wrong to stay for the party. Agatha hated the fact that she had misjudged this. She thought she had stopped making the wrong decisions years ago and she prided herself on her ability to suss out a situation and mould herself to it successfully. Naturally this way of life always had a limited time span, but moving on was never hard. Agatha had nothing but contempt for the Donaldsons now. She remembered with incredulity how she had felt about them when she’d first arrived; how she had allowed herself to believe they weren’t as fucked up as the others, how she had even fantasised about making herself so indispensable that she would stay with them for ever, becoming some coherent part of their family that none of them could imagine doing without. But no one was indispensable, which was yet another reason why it was okay for her to take Hal with her tomorrow morning.
With her thoughts more ordered, Agatha felt the anxiety loosen its grip enough so she was able to get out of bed. It was coming up for seven when she got into the kitchen and the house was completely still and quiet. She had planned to slip out at six the next morning, telling Hal that they were going on a birthday treat adventure. The quietness gave her a surge of confidence, she could have at least an hour’s start on them all, probably longer. You could easily get a train to the coast in that time. You might even make it on to a ferry before the police had been called.
Agatha sat at the kitchen table and waited for the house to wake up. It infuriated her that everyone would saunter around this morning, like nothing important was happening at three. She knew Ruth and Christian wouldn’t do anything to stop the children spilling cereal and that they’d drop coffee granules on the floor and toast crumbs on the table. Agatha would have to sit there, holding in her anger, while they all casually trashed her cleanliness, without even apologising. If she had the power she would ban them all from the house until five minutes before the party was due to start.
Betty was the first person to appear. Agatha liked her best first thing in the morning, subdued and fuzzy round the edges. She got the little girl a bowl of cereal and a mug of juice and made herself a cup of tea and they sat together, not talking. Agatha realised that she would miss Betty, but not so as her heart would feel stretched like it did when she thought about her own sister, Louise. Walking away from her parents had been easy, but Louise had nearly been enough to make her stay. Not that her sister had shared the feeling. She was three years older than Agatha and spent most of the time they were together telling her how stupid she was. Harry once told Agatha that he’d chosen her over Louise because Louise was too feisty. She hadn’t understood the word at the time, but she’d still known enough about life to see the irony in the fact that the first thing she’d ever beaten Louise in wasn’t worth winning.
Agatha had googled Louise the previous year and had been surprised to see that her sister was on Facebook. The knowledge was like a worm burrowing into her brain because she could only see a picture of her sister and a few lines of text. Agatha could never be on Facebook, even though it was her perfect medium, the one way she would be able to connect with the outside world and be just like all the other people sitting behind their screens, editing their life and playing make-believe. In the photo Louise was standing in front of a glass door which Agatha thought looked like an important offi ce. She was wearing a pink coat and her hair was long enough to blow across her face, making her smile out at whoever was behind the camera. Agatha had spent too many hours trying to see beyond the picture, but it was hard to see her sister so out of context, looking happy and successful.
She still looked at Louise as often as she could, but the picture now scared her as it made her realise that her family had continued on without her all these years. She hadn’t expected them to exist in limbo, but still it was galling to see her sister so obviously full of life. One day, many years away, she was going to take Hal to see them and give them the shock of their lives; Agatha had done something useful for once.
When Agatha had first arrived in London seven years ago, with nothing more than the clothes she was wearing and a few hundred pounds she’d saved or stolen, she used to scan any missing poster she came across. Or watch those shows on the telly with people looking for relatives, as if everyone was trapped in a swirling vortex pulling you away from those you loved. She longed to see her own face staring out at her, hear her parents begging her to contact them, her mother too weak to talk and her father red-eyed as he made the statement for both of them. Even Louise would be there, huddled into their mother, saying that life wasn’t the same without her sister and she’d do anything to get her back. Whatever you’ve done or whatever trouble you’re in, we don’t care, come home, we can sort it out. That was the sort of thing the other parents said on their appeals. It was not the sort of thing Agatha could imagine her own parents saying. And then, when she’d looked at Louise’s photo on the Internet, she’d realised that all her hoping had been a waste of time because they’d probably never bothered looking for her or even wondered where she was. Why can’t you be nice, Agatha, her mother used to shout at her. Nobody likes a liar, you know. If the truth be told, they’
d all probably felt a surge of relief when she’d finally gone.
Ruth walked into the kitchen carrying Hal and for a second Agatha didn’t know where she was. How had she not heard him? Betty immediately started jumping up and down, singing Happy Birthday, but Hal looked bemused.
‘Can we open his presents now?’ Betty was shouting.
‘I don’t see why not,’ said Ruth. ‘They’re in the sitting room. Go and get Dad.’
Agatha was pleased with her present. She’d spent ages thinking about what to get him and when she’d come up with the idea it had seemed perfect. She’d gone to the Early Learning Centre and bought a pop-up tent. It was just right because it meant that Hal would be able to have his own space to retreat to wherever they were. It had been one of the first things Agatha had noticed about Hal and one of the first things to strike a chord with her. Often life seemed too much for Hal and that’s why he spent so much time in the plastic house in the playroom. Ruth and Christian thought it was something to do with the house, but Agatha could have told them it had nothing to do with the place, it was the isolation Hal craved. Since she had let him dictate his own life a bit more and started removing him from situations which were too loud or chaotic, he’d stopped needing the house so much. Which was another reason why they shouldn’t have stayed for the party.
By the time Agatha got back downstairs with her present the whole family was in the sitting room, all in their nightclothes, watching Betty open Hal’s presents. He was sitting on Ruth’s lap, curled into her, unable to give the right or any response to the gifts that Betty was shoving in his face. Next year was going to be very different; Agatha tried to catch Hal’s eye to let him know this, but he wouldn’t look up.
After he’d had all his family presents opened, Agatha stepped forward and handed over her offering.
‘Oh, Aggie, that’s so kind of you,’ said Ruth. ‘You shouldn’t have.’
Everything and Nothing Page 19
