by Jo Verity
This facile comment sounded horribly like something he’d mentioned to Neil on the way back from the community centre. ‘Why don’t they have one news bulletin a day that tells us all the good news. Cheer us all up.’ Oh God, was he morphing prematurely?
‘Neil brought you a cuppa? He’s a nice lad, isn’t he?’ What can she find to whinge about there?
‘A very nice lad. I only wish my grandsons were half as thoughtful as young Neil.
‘That’s not quite fair, Mum, Dylan cares a great deal—‘
'One’s under the thumb of a wife who won’t let him out of her sight.’ She shot him a loaded glance, ‘And the other one … well, I might as well not have another one.’ His mother glared at him, daring him to take up the challenge.
Persevere, persevere. ‘So, how are you bearing up, Mum? You must be feeling exhausted – all that traipsing back and forth. I know it means a lot to Dad, having you there.
She patted the sofa cushion, indicating that he should sit down. It was ten-thirty and he was tired and really would like to shower before bed but, mindful of how little time he’d given her in the past two weeks – or the past thirty years? – he did as she requested.
Next morning, Fay woke at five. The nausea had subsided but her head pounded and, if she swivelled her eyes from side to side, it felt as if she’d been punched in both eye sockets. She ran her hands down her body and confirmed that she was no longer wearing the bra and thong – she thought she remembered Jack easing them off – but she was pretty sure that they hadn’t made love. Jack had been very attentive in the night, sitting in the bathroom with her when she thought she was going to be sick and bringing her several glasses of water. ‘You’re dehydrated, love. This’ll help.’ Now he was lying alongside her, his back to her, his arm outside the duvet. From the gentle rise and fall of his shoulders, she could tell that he was asleep. She turned over cautiously, not ready yet to wake him and face an inquisition. She would let him sleep until the alarm went off at seven. Their tight breakfast schedule would leave little time for discussion and it was possible that she wouldn’t have to answer any questions until the evening.
Friday. The pupils were skittish, planning the weekend’s sexual skirmishes and illegal substances. It was much the same in the staff room. Despite a dull headache and sensitive eyes, Fay free-wheeled through the morning, sustained by paracetamol, black coffee and a couple of cigarettes. Her failure to re-ignite Jack’s passion, or her own if it came to that, had lessened her motivation to save up for more lingerie and, things being as they were, the calming effect of nicotine was invaluable.
Jack rang during her lunch break, to ask how she was feeling. ‘Better, thanks. And Jack. Thanks for being so…thoughtful.’ There was silence on the other end of the line. She should say something about her behaviour last night, and she sensed that each was waiting for the other to bring up the subject, but neither broke the silence. In any case, she couldn’t contemplate holding an extended, and possibly life-changing, conversation on a phone the size of a bar of soap.
After lunch, she was timetabled to take Form Four and, once they were settled, she asked them for their ‘What’s in the Bag?’ homework. She noticed that two or three had made title pages with colourful illustrations and the consensus was that it had been ‘fun homework’. This made her uneasy. She pushed the bundle of papers into her brief case.
After the lesson, as the teenagers jostled and shoved their way out, one of the boys – a nondescript lad called Darren – lingered by her table. ‘Miss?'
'Mrs Waterfield.’ She was expected to remember his name, the least he could do was remember hers.
‘Right. Mrs Waterfield. When can we have them back? Our stories?‘
'When do I next teach you lot?’ She consulted her timetable. ‘Wednesday. I’ll mark them in time for the Wednesday lesson.’ It seemed an odd request. ‘Any particular reason, Darren?'
He looked miserable. ‘You won’t read them out in class, will you?‘
'Why?’ She had thought it might be a good idea to read the best ones, especially as the class were so enthusiastic about the exercise.
‘Mine’s rubbish. I just don’t want you to read it out,’ he was trying to sound casual, but she detected the earnestness in his voice.
She reassured him. ‘No. I promise I won’t read yours out to the class.’ This was a troubled youngster. ‘If you like, you can take it back and let me have another story. Have another bash at it.
He shook his head. ‘No. You can read it, Miss.’ He heaved his rucksack on to his shoulder and plodded after the rest of the class.
Jack arrived home early, bringing two bunches of dahlias. ‘They’re beautiful. Thank you.’ Fay kissed his cheek.
Vi, ever looking to identify unnecessary extravagance, called it to his attention that Harry grew dahlias – gladioli and chrysanthemums, too – in their garden. ‘No need to spend good money on flowers, John. I’m sure your father would want you to help yourself.’ But when he produced a small box of Dairy Milk for her, she didn’t complain.
‘You’re getting crafty in your old age,’ Fay said when they were alone. Having made a fool of herself last night, she wasn’t sure where she stood with her husband.
‘I aim to please. Not always easy with Mum, mind you.‘
'Jack…about last night…'
He held up both hands to stop her ‘No need, love. You don’t have to explain. Everyone is entitled to do whatever they want to do. No questions asked.'
What a peculiar thing to say. Their married life was founded upon inquests. Nothing went without question or justification. Jack never went out to buy a newspaper without telling her where he was going, and how long he was going to be away. That wasn’t quite accurate, though, was it? What about those Thursday evenings, when he’d let her think he was off dancing and had, in fact, been visiting his parents? And now this ‘everyone is entitled to do whatever they want to do’ remark. She raised her eyebrows, inviting him to expand but he didn’t take the hint.
29
Although it was Saturday, Fay got up as soon as she woke, irrationally embarrassed to be lying in bed with Jack whilst his mother and an ex-pupil were within earshot. It was like being in a hotel room, conscious that other guests might be listening through adjoining walls. ‘Don’t forget we’re going out this evening,’ she whispered to Jack, who was still asleep – or pretending to be. ‘You’d better visit your father this afternoon.’
She was setting the breakfast table when Caitlin rang from the station, reminding her mother that she was off to London. ‘Oh. It’s this weekend, is it? It had slipped my mind. Have a lovely time and… give Cassidy my love.’ She had been determined not to mention his name and was disappointed with her own lack of self-control. She made a pot of coffee, wishing that she were standing on Platform One at Cardiff Central, waiting for the Paddington train to whisk her off to a handsome young lover.
After her triumph with Jack on Tuesday night, swiftly followed by her failures on Wednesday and Thursday, Fay wasn’t clear how things stood between them – or how she wanted them to be. Her infatuation for Cassidy would never come to anything but she couldn’t bear to surrender the sweet fantasy, which had made her summer so exhilarating. She was all too aware that his physical presence was madness-inducing and that she her strongest resolution would falter if he stood in front of her. The sensible thing, therefore, was to steer clear of him – that was the theory, anyway.
She watched Jack as he buttered his wholemeal toast, spreading thick-cut marmalade across its surface, pushing it to within a millimetre of the crust, evenly distributing the slivers of peel. He always sliced the round from top to bottom, never from side-to-side, explaining that he preferred a section of crusty top and soft base on each half round. He’d followed this formula most mornings for the past thirty years, methodical and unimaginative – exactly what you would want from your dentist.
He looked up, ‘Any plans for today?’
‘Didn’t you
say, yesterday, that everyone should do whatever they want to do? No questions asked?’ She intended her response to be light-hearted and a little provocative but it sounded bitter, as if the words had been fermenting overnight, ready to boil up into an argument.
He glanced up, expressionless. ‘Yes, I did.’
She tried to melt the icy wastes separating them. ‘Actually, I was thinking I’d—’
‘No,’ he shook his head, ‘No. You’re absolutely right. It’s none of my business.’
Silence settled around them, opaque and insulating. Although she would stake her life on the way Jack would butter his toast, she would no longer wager anything on the unfathomable process of his mind.
Saturdays and Sundays these days threw up their own difficulties. Fay could barely cope with weekdays, when she only had to spend the evening avoiding Jack’s mother, but it was impossible at the weekend. Unable to come to terms with the outlandish notion that Fay paid someone to clean her house, Vi pottered about, flicking surfaces with a yellow duster or fiddling with the vacuum cleaner. Her behaviour annoyed Fay and probably offended Colleen, the cleaner, who would see it as a criticism of her competence.
‘You don’t have to do that,’ Fay told Vi when she found her in the downstairs cloakroom.’
Vi pumped the lavatory brush up and down in the pan. ‘I’ve got to earn my keep. The Devil makes work for idle hands.’
Upstairs, Neil was playing his guitar and his plaintive strumming brought Fay to a standstill, as if she had received a blow to the chest. There was a time when faltering chord sequences, forging pathways through unwritten songs, had filled the house, as much a part of their lives as the ticking clock or the pictures on the walls. It had driven her mad, but it was worse when Kingsley left and the music ceased.
‘Neil,’ she shouted. ‘Neil? I’m not doing anything at the moment so why don’t we have a go at your CV? It shouldn’t take more than an hour.’ The music stopped and she breathed again.
They spent the rest of the morning in the study and by midday had produced a document which maximised Neil’s humble qualifications – five reasonable GCSE passes, the Duke of Edinburgh’s bronze medal and several awards for swimming and lifesaving. Fay guided him through the section on hobbies and interests and, by the end of it, had learned that his middle name was Vincent – after Gene not Van Gogh – and his birthday fell on the same day as Marion’s – proving that astrology was twaddle.
‘Thanks. I wasn’t getting anywhere.’
‘Well, I’d certainly give you a job, with this CV.’ She patted his hand. ‘And you know you can always give my name as a reference.’
‘Thanks, Fay.’ He gave an appreciative grin and tears, triggered by his grateful acceptance of her help, blurred her vision.
The car pulled up and Jack got out. The last time she’d seen him he’d been going into the shed, but he must have left whilst she was with Neil. He was carrying a Marks and Spencer carrier bag but, by the time he appeared in the kitchen, there was no sign of it. Under the new rules, she felt unable to ask where he’d been or what he’d bought.
After lunch, Jack and Vi went to the hospital and Neil disappeared to do an extra shift at the pub. At last she had the house to herself for a couple of hours and she made a cup of strong coffee, picked up the newspaper and, lured by the milky September sunshine, went into the garden. The drooping purple blossoms of the buddleia bush were alive with butterflies and, as she watched them, thoughts of Caitlin and Cassidy, flirting over a glass of white wine, fluttered in to disturb the tranquil scene.
In an attempt to block the incapacitating thoughts, she did a tour of the garden. Gardening, for its own sake, didn’t interest her but she liked the flower beds to look orderly, the grass just-mown, so that if they entertained guests out here the garden acted as a pleasing backdrop. Jack, unlike his father, wasn’t a committed gardener and he stuck with the old stand-bys – roses, gladioli and chrysanthemums – but he did his best and everything was looking neat and tidy. She worked her way along the border, tugging at odd wisps of couch-grass and nipping spent heads from the roses, recalling Dylan’s wedding as fading petals cascaded to the ground.
Arriving at the garden shed, she glanced through the cobwebbed window and spotted Jack’s M&S bag, at the end of the workbench. So this was where he’d left it. She tried the handle, half-expecting the door to be locked but it swung open. Despite the open window, the sun had raised the temperature inside the wooden building and the air, smelling of white spirit and wood shavings, was stuffy. A bluebottle buzzed up in the rafters, loud and sinister. She stepped inside, crossing the unmarked border into Jack’s private domain, becoming a spy in alien territory, liable for punishment if she were caught. What was he hiding? What didn’t he want her to see?
‘This is ridiculous.’ Taking two decisive strides, she snatched up the carrier and pulled out the contents. It was a black polo-necked sweater – forty inch chest – Jack’s size. What a let down. The thing that surprised her was his driving all the way into town for something so commonplace. Not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed in what she’d found, she re-folded the sweater and placed the bag back exactly where it had been. As she’d always known, parcels were invariably more exciting before they were opened – with the exception of those in plain brown carriers, of course.
Her discovery reminded her that she had essays to mark. It was several days before she was due to return them but, with her appetite for mystery whetted, she was intrigued to see what the brown bag homework had thrown up. In particular, to find out what had caused Darren so much anxiety. She made a second coffee and collected her briefcase.
On the whole, the class had produced good work. It might be worth repeating the exercise with other groups she taught. The keenest pupil had discovered a magic carpet, leading to six tedious pages of intergalactic tosh; the laziest – or the cleverest – another carrier bag inside which there was another bag inside which there was … There was a predictable body-part count – heads, fingers, ears – and an alarming amount of food, drink and drugs.
She saved Darren’s work until last. Darren’s bag contained a brown wig, a pink strappy top, a short denim skirt and a pair of white pumps. In the privacy of the fictional garden shed, he’d stripped off his tee-shirt and jeans and put on the clothes explaining, in awkward, clichéd language, his feeling of happiness as he was transformed from a fourteen-year-old boy into a fourteen-year-old girl. ‘Everything seemed okay again. Life could get back to how it ought to be.’ Poor kid. No wonder he’d not wanted his work read out to the class. What made it extra touching, extra poignant, was that he’d dressed in the clothes of a typical teenage girl. It would have still have been shocking, but more logical, if the bag had been full of sequinned dresses and six-inch stilettos.
Circling spelling mistakes and correcting punctuation, she re-read Darren’s essay. The boy was pleading for help. But why had he reached out to her? The homework had been an opportunity, but a rather obscure one. He must trust her, although she’d had nothing much to do with him, until a couple of weeks ago. A crush on an older woman? It happened. What if…what if women of a certain age produced a pheromone, or something similar, that attracted vulnerable young men? There’d been that article in the Observer, hadn’t there? Women were winning fishing competitions because they gave off a scent which attracted the heavier male fish. And, look. Hadn’t Neil come scuttling round to the house after one sniff? Then there was Cassidy. He’d hinted that his memories of David hadn’t been wonderful. Perhaps he, too, was planning to come and cry on her shoulder‘.
This is fun, isn’t it?’ Fay leaned across the table towards Jack and gave him a knowing grin.
They were seated in the corner of a dingy, pseudo-Italian restaurant and Jack’s eyes were watering from garlic fumes, drifting from the open-plan kitchen. It wasn’t ‘fun’ and he ought to stand by his new manifesto and tell her so, but truth was too important to be wasted on minor issues like Italian restaur
ants.
‘It was sweet of Caitlin to book this for us, don’t you think? All week she’s been saying that we should spend more time together. Away from…you know…things.'
Did Caitlin really believe that a couple of hours eating pasta and drinking second-rate Valpollicello could set the world straight? ‘Where’s she gone, anyway?’ Jack asked, imagining how much more he would enjoy the evening were Caitlin there with them.
‘Oh, I’m not sure. London I think.’ Fay brushed invisible crumbs off the red table cloth. ‘She’s meeting Cassidy Ford and they’re going to a furniture exhibition. Then he’s taking her to see Sadie and Joe. They live in the East End. Did you ever meet Joe?’ She seemed to know a lot of the fine detail for someone who wasn’t sure.
Fay chattered on. Now and again she paused but, when he said nothing, she started again, as if his silence were encouraging. While she talked to herself, Jack watched the other diners – mostly couples, like themselves – weighing up which were soul-mates, which resigned to their circumstances.
He’d done further internet research before his trip to Marks and Spencer, unearthing a plethora of definitions, many ambiguous and confusing and he’d printed out a couple of the more straightforward ones, to have by him for handy reference. Existentialism views the individual, the self, the individual’s experience, and the uniqueness therein as the basis for understanding the nature of human existence. He’d definitely had some unique experiences over the past couple of months but they hadn’t cast much light on human existence and, as a novice, he decided it was wiser to make sense of his own life before tackling the rest of mankind.
The waiter arrived and poured a splash of wine into his glass, standing back whilst Jack tasted it. It was as bad as he’d anticipated, sharp and lifeless, but he couldn’t be bothered to make a fuss.
