by Jo Verity
Non showed no surprise at his admission of fatherhood. ‘You must know all about it then. Unconditional love.’
‘I suppose so.’ Keen to steer clear of his domestic details and find out more about hers, he said, ‘Ruth seems nice.’
‘Ruth’s wonderful. Ruth’s my saviour. She was the one who stopped me topping myself.’ The words sounded doubly ugly, coming from her lovely mouth.
He laughed then, seeing that she wasn’t making a joke, waited in silence until she was ready to tell him.
‘It was a man, of course. The usual story. I trusted him. He messed around. I chucked him out. Pathetic, really.’
‘How long ago?’
‘Just after we moved to Llangwm, so that’s what, three, three-and-a-half years? Ruth saw me through the black days. She gave me a job here and a place to live.’ She pre-empted his question, ‘Dad was too busy sorting out The Welcome Stranger, and Mum was too busy sorting Dad, to notice that I was sinking.’
‘That’s terrible.’
‘Yes. It was. But it isn’t any more.’
And then Jack told her about Fay and what a determined woman she was. About his clever, beautiful daughter. About Dylan, his steady son, and his marriage to the inscrutable Nia. About his father’s illness, his mother’s dependence and his fears for all their futures.
‘It sounds wonderfully normal. You’re very lucky.’ She thought for a second. ‘But what about your other son?’
Finally he told her about Kingsley – the whole story, even down to the ugly steel shutter that his son’s leaving had brought down between him and Fay. ‘So, not totally wonderful.’
He would have appreciated a little sympathy but it didn’t come. ‘Oh, I don’t know. You’re all alive and healthy – apart from your father and he’s an old man. You must know he can’t live forever. You’re well respected. You’re not short of money. Isn’t the rest of it up to you?’
Non showed him around the nursery, telling him about the plans they had to branch out into garden design and maintenance. ‘Not that anyone here’s got enough money to pay someone to do their garden. They’d sooner let it go back to the wild.’ She shrugged and grinned, ‘It’s fun to daydream, don’t you think?’
Ruth waved from the greenhouse and he could see how fundamental her unobtrusive and unwavering support must have been, and how important this peaceful place had become for Non after the bastard abandoned her.
‘I think I’ll buy a plant for Fay,’ he said, ‘What d’you recommend?’ He’d dream up an explanation on his way back to Cardiff.
She suggested a rosemary bush. ‘Rosemary for remembrance. And if she makes an infusion with the leaves and uses it to rinse her hair, it’ll make it shine.’ She lifted a plait. ‘I always use it.’
A few customers arrived and Jack knew that must let her to get on with her work. ‘Look… I may be in Llangwm again at the end of the month – with a Morris group … but it could be difficult – there might not be time…’
She held her hand up. ‘No worries. You know you’re always welcome.’ Then she made, what to him seemed, the most extraordinary statement. ‘Everyone needs a place where they can go to catch their breath; to find themselves. There’s nothing wrong in that.’
His recollection of the journey back to Cardiff was hazy, but one thing he was certain about, he’d had some kind of revelation – he might go so far as to say an epiphany. He’d come clean and, not only had it made no difference to Non’s attitude to him, if he’d understood her correctly, she’d given him permission to use Llamgwm as his bolt-hole.
32
Fay read Darren’s story several more times. In it, the shed where he found the carrier bag was in the back garden of a semi on a new housing estate. After he changed into the girls’ clothes, he peered through the window of the house, watching a family – mother, father and two boys – eating fish and chips. Then he/she went in through the back door and, after hugging everyone, joined them at the table. It was Pinter-esque in its menacing simplicity.
In her experience, teenagers were just as crude in their creative writing as they were in every other facet of their lives, piling on sensational adjectives, unable to resist predictable plot twists. This made Darren’s story all the more unusual. Without revealing her reasons, she consulted several members of staff about him, attempting to flesh out this lad whom, up until last week, she’d barely noticed. ‘Quiet.’ ‘Nondescript.’ ‘Unremarkable.’ ‘Darren Who?’ was all she got back. She thought about dumping the matter on the Head. His salary was at least double hers, so why not? The trouble was, once she’d reported it, the whole thing – whatever it might be – would be ‘taken further’ and the details circulated to the world-and-his-wife. It was tantamount to betraying Darren’s trust and as bad as reading his story out to the class. She wouldn’t do anything yet.
During morning break she phoned Caitlin. Their conversation, the evening before, had been curtailed by Jack’s ridiculous antics and she hadn’t heard anything like enough about her daughter’s weekend in London. ‘Can you sneak away at lunch time?’ she asked and they agreed to meet in the coffee shop near the school.
They chose a table in the corner, where passing pupils couldn’t see them. ‘Sorry about the fiasco with the cup of tea last night. Your father seems permanently distracted these days. And I’m convinced he’s going deaf.’
Caitlin wrinkled her nose. ‘Don’t be too hard on him, Mum. He’s got a lot on his mind. And I meant to ask, how was the meal on Saturday?’
‘It was nice. A nice change.’ How could she tell Caitlin that she and Jack had hardly spoken to each other all evening; that she would have had more fun dining with a total stranger; nor that, to counteract her frustration, she’d had too much to drink?
She had always thought it improper for the children to know the ins and outs of her relationship with Jack. Similarly, Caitlin had never sought her mother’s opinion on the men in her life. Up until now, that had been fine but Fay’s longing to know every detail of the weekend nagged away like a stitch in her side. ‘Was the exhibition interesting? Did you see much of London?’
Caitlin gave a factual account of their movements, reeling off Tube stations and bus numbers, and describing items of furniture in the exhibition. In fact she mentioned everything but Cassidy. Did equivocation suggest that Caitlin, too, had fallen under his spell? In an attempt to verify this, she ventured, ‘You two get on well, by the sound of it.’
Caitlin rearranged the cutlery on the table. ‘He’s very easy to talk to. I feel as if I’ve known him forever.’ She laughed, her cheeks colouring, ‘I suppose I have, if it comes to that.’ Then, evidently thankful for the opportunity to shift the focus of the conversation, she added, ‘Sadie really does look like Kingsley.’
‘A similar thing happened to me.’ Fay told Caitlin how, a few months earlier, she’d seen someone in British Home Stores who’d looked so like Barbara Devereux, whom she’d worked with in her first teaching post, that she assumed they were related. ‘She had tiny teeth and a snub nose, just like Barbara. And the same warbley voice. There could be no confusion with such an unusual name but the woman had never heard of anyone called Devereux. They could have been twins.’ Fay, not interested in talking about Sadie, redirected the conversation. ‘D’you two have any plans for another get together?’
Caitlin concentrated on her Greek salad. ‘As a matter of fact, he may come down to Cardiff in a couple of weeks. I’m going to see if I can get tickets for the opera.’
‘That’s nice...’ Fay kept at it, ‘He’s very good-looking.’
‘Is he? I hadn’t noticed.’
‘And very charming.’
‘Don’t be silly, Mum. We enjoy each other’s company, that’s all. There’s nothing in it.’ Caitlin’s cheeks flushed a deeper pink and her eyes sparkled and Fay thought how alive she looked.
When Fay arrived home, Neil explained that someone was giving Vi a lift from the hospital. ‘Jack’s not back, though. D’you
reckon he’s okay?’
Puzzled, she checked her watch. ‘But he never gets home before six, Neil.’
‘Didn’t he tell you?’ Neil filled her in on Jack’s indisposition. ‘He was feeling better so he went for a walk. But that was before midday.’
Wrong-footed, yet determined to conceal her confusion, she offered an explanation. ‘I bet he’s called on one of his dancing friends. I’ll try his mobile.’ She waited until she was alone to make the call but Jack’s phone was off and she left a succinct and unambiguous message. ‘What the fuck are you playing at?’
An hour passed and there was still no word from him. Vi returned, full of praise for ‘the total stranger’ – in fact the sister of the man who occupied the bed next to Harry and whom Vi saw every afternoon – who had so kindly delivered her to the door. ‘A real good Samaritan.’ She looked around. ‘How’s poor John?’
Lucky bloody John, more like. He’d managed to escape. Moreover, he clearly felt no obligation to explain where he was or to hurry back.
Vi tagged along behind Fay, telling her the same things several times over and switching lights off, even if they were only leaving the room for a few minutes, until Fay, fearing she would batter the woman, retreated to the study, saying that she had tomorrow’s lesson to prepare.
She was curled in the armchair, reading the newspaper, when Neil tapped on the door. ‘Cup of tea?’
‘That would be lovely.’
Neil would make some lucky girl a completely prosaic husband – faithful, supportive, cheerful and paralysingly boring. It was tempting to label Jack ‘prosaic’ but that would be a lazy, inaccurate description. He was infuriating, obscure, childish and becoming conspicuously unpredictable. Okay, he was never going to vary the way he spread his marmalade, but what on earth had that poetry recitation been about? Or the polo-necked sweater? Or – obviously the point he was making today – the ‘I-don’t-have-to-explain-what-I’m-doing’ nonsense?
‘Is it okay if I use the computer? I thought I’d mail Kingsley.’
‘Sorry. What did you say?’
‘Mail Kingsley. I’ve got a bit of news that’ll interest him. I’ve tracked Titch Rowson down. D’you remember Titch? Big guy. Used to play, well, still does play, keyboards. He’s interested in re-forming the band.’
Fay stared at Neil, who was no longer boring. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’
‘The band—’
‘I don’t give a flying fuck about your band. You said “Mail Kingsley”. Mail Kingsley? Do I gather you’re in contact with my son?’
‘Yeah. I thought Jack would’ve told you.’
‘Jack knows?’
He nodded, unhappily.
In no time at all she was in possession of the facts concerning the email exchanges but, on seeing Neil’s troubled face, she relented a little. ‘I do feel betrayed, Neil, but, if as you say, you assumed Jack was keeping me informed, then it’s excusable. But you must give me your word that you’ll tell me as soon as you get the next mail from him. Is that understood?’
‘Yeah. Sorry.’ He crept out of the room and she heard him go upstairs and shut the bedroom door.
‘Hi, love,’ Jack greeted her. ‘I was telling Mum the latest from the hospital.’
‘You’ve been to the hospital, too, have you? Goodness, Jack, you’ve been a busy bee. How are you feeling by the way?’ A rictus smile reinforced her icy tone.
‘Much better, thanks. Yes, I thought, as I was out and about—’
‘You thought you might as well make the most of it. Is that right?’
‘Well… I…’
Vi chipped in ‘Never mind that. What did the doctor say? Can Dad come home tomorrow?’
‘Not tomorrow, but unless something untoward happens, he’ll be out on Monday. So, a little celebration is in order.’ He poured two glasses of sherry – Vi was already sipping orange juice – and handed one to Fay, then smiled, raising his glass. ‘Cheers. They want to get him up and about for a few days, make sure he can cope with the stairs and things like that. Get himself to the toilet.’
Fay winced, ‘Lavatory.’
Although he was speaking to Vi, his eyes remained focussed on Fay’s fixed smile and she let him continue, until there was nothing more he could possibly add to his account of his meeting with Harry’s medical team.
‘And what about you, Jack? Did you go anywhere interesting this afternoon?’ she asked. ‘We were slightly concerned at your seven hour absence, but you seem to be restored to rude good health.’
‘Yes. Well. I’m sorry about that, love. I don’t know where the time went. I started driving and, next thing I knew, I was up in the Beacons. Beautiful up there, it was. I had a good walk, towards Pen y Fan, and it seemed to do the trick. Bought a coffee in a lay-by. One of those mobile canteen places. Nice and clean. I’ve got a little present for you in the car, by the way.’
‘How thoughtful. Why don’t we go and find it?’ She was gratified to see the unease on his face as she led him out of the back door, sherry glass still in hand. ‘No, this way.’ She directed him towards the shed where, once inside and the door firmly shut, she gulped her sherry, the liquid coursing down her throat and igniting the fury that had been building up.
‘How dare you? How dare you?’ She could make Jack out but his features were indistinct in the semi-darkness, illuminated only by the light from the kitchen window, shining across the garden. She hurled her empty glass and only knew that it had missed him when it struck the far wall, tinkling as the pieces hit the ground, signalling the start of Round One. She slapped him high across his cheek then waited for some reaction. When he didn’t move, she tried again, but a lot harder this time, her rings digging into her fingers as she connect with his jaw. She went for his ears next and he responded, raising his hands to protect his face, but still he didn’t speak.
‘You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you? Do you?’ She was shrieking now and punching randomly, desperate to hurt him, desperate to inflict pain.‘Do you?’
He caught one of her flailing arms. ‘Stop. Okay. I plead guilty. Just once in my life I thought no, I don’t want to go to work today. I don’t want to look at rotting teeth. I don’t want to—’
‘Don’t try and be clever with me you… you bastard.’ She was sobbing, her energy dissipating, and he managed to trap her other arm but she continued to rail. ‘You fucking wanker. You loser.’ She summoned up another burst of strength and, deprived of the use of her fists, raised her knee, hoping to find his groin but he twisted out of range. ‘You fucking bastard. You’ve got no right. No right. You…you… cunt.’ She spat out the ultimate obscenity, sensing Jack flinch, as if he’d been kicked.
‘For God’s sake, Fay. I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘How could you.’? She was wailing and mumbling, her accusations coming in short, unintelligible bursts. ‘Kingsley… emails… Neil thought… why… you cruel bastard…’ Exhausted and running out of steam, she panted and leaned heavily against him, weeping into his armpit.
As she gasped out the disjointed phrases, Jack understood. Her tirade had been triggered by his failure to tell her about Kingsley’s email correspondence. He clamped her arms down at her sides, terrified that her violent rage would boil up again, giving her enough strength to harm herself or him. After all, the place they stood in was an arsenal – chisels, gouges, hammers, saws – everything within arm’s reach, each tool capable of inflicting nastier damage than most conventional weapons.
Rows were nothing new but their spats generally centred on minor misdemeanours – an overlooked gas bill or muddy shoes or a wine bottle tossed in the black bag, rather than the green. Correction. They centred on his misdemeanours. He rarely bothered to complain when Fay left his car low on fuel or threw away a newspaper-cutting that he was saving, because she had the knack of turning the grievance back on itself so that he was in the wrong. By tacit agreement, they had never rowed over important issues – Kingsle
y’s leaving; Fay’s rejection of his parents; the way she belittled his achievements. Perhaps they feared that doing so might start an avalanche of recrimination which would bury them both, and it looked as if tonight might prove them right.
She was struggling less violently and, realising that he was no longer in physical danger, he attempted an explanation for his secrecy. ‘I didn’t want you to be upset…’ Sod it. Why should he apologise?
He drew in a deep breath and spoke calmly and quietly. ‘You’ve got a nerve. You were the one who drove him out.’ She didn’t answer but he felt her stiffen as if he’d given her a sharp slap across the leg – something his mother often did when, as a child, he started getting ‘uppity’. ‘You’ve got a bloody nerve. If youhadn’t bullied, criticised, nagged and hounded the boy, he’d be up in that room now. But you couldn’t bear the idea that one of your children might not conform – might not go to university – and then you wouldn’t be able to boast to all your smug-bastard friends. You saw it as a failure and Fay Waterfield never fails at anything, does she? Now you’ve roped in Neil Bentley, poor bugger, and you’re trying to beat him into shape. Mrs Frankenstein, that’s what we should call you.’
He pushed her and she seemed to slip, staggering backwards, grabbing the back of the chair, trying to regain her balance but crashing to the floor.
‘Aagghh.’ It was a cry of pain, not anger.
It was impossible to see what had happened in the blue-black shadows below workbench level, but he could tell it was serious. ‘What is it?’
‘Just put the bloody light on.’
The fluorescent tube stuttered into life, and its weak, cold glow revealed Fay, sprawled on the floor, blood dripping from her left hand.With his foot, he scuffed aside the shards of the smashed sherry glass and, grasping her beneath her arms, he hoisted her onto the chair. She avoided looking at him, staring out of the window as he inspected the cut, but the combination of dark blood and poor illumination made it difficult to make an accurate assessment. ‘Let’s get it under the tap,’ he said.
