Rope of Sand

by C F Dunn

  I turned to Matthew. “It’s lovely, and I’ll have everything I need – but you.”

  He gave me a roguish grin. “Who says you won’t have me – or most of me, at the very least?”

  “Well, in that case, I have everything.” I glanced around the room at the pretty antique bed with its floral quilted covers, and the glossy women’s magazines on the table. “Who stays here normally?”

  He frowned. “Normally? No one. Only Maggie stays in this part of the house. Why?”

  “It almost feels as if someone does, that’s all.”

  He nodded slowly, “Good, that’s how it’s supposed to seem. Would you like to see my room?”

  He took me out onto the landing and through the next door. I didn’t know what I expected to find. Bedrooms are so intensely personal that entering one without invitation is tantamount to a violation. Even being there with him made me feel a little awkward. Larger again than mine, the windows threw cold, snow-reflected light against sombre grey-green walls. Classic it might have been, and in keeping with the fine, restrained antiques that simply furnished the room, but it lacked heart.

  He led me past his plain bed, lying forlornly against the left wall, and to the far windows, where a gleam of sunlight struck the richly polished floor, casting a strip of light across my feet. Almost enclosed by the heavy curtains, we were alone again in our own world as we looked out on his. As he stood behind me, I pushed back against his solidity, feeling safe.

  “This is what I wanted you to see,” he said quietly.

  A vast snowscape of foothills, rising to meet the distant mountains, flowed from the house, velvet-gloved and rolling away to where clusters of trees marked the course of the river. Trees stood more thickly beyond the thin ribbon of water, crowding along the embankment as if queuing to cross. The attraction of the land derived from its simple beauty, and the sense of total peace and freedom that lay upon the open spaces and big, wide sky.

  “It’s so different to what I’m used to…”

  “But do you like it?”

  “I love it,” I breathed.

  His arms tightened about me. “In spring, the new leaves on those trees look like early morning sun, even when it’s cloudy, and those dips and bumps down there…” he pointed at the white undulations, “… are covered in flowers, just… just as I remember the Meadows down by the river at home after the winter floods.” I heard a note of longing in his voice and gave him a moment. “When we first came here and the children were younger, we taught them to fish in the river – not rod and line fishing – we caught them by hand…”

  “You tickled trout!”

  “Mmm, well, they didn’t catch much but that wasn’t the point; they loved to have a go, and it was great when they succeeded. Have you ever tried?”

  I remembered my one and only attempt to tickle a fish. “Yes – and no. I tried to catch a wounded pike and it didn’t like it.”

  He shook his head, and held out my hands, spreading my fingers, a tiny white scar at the base of my thumb all that remained of my encounter. “No bits missing. What were you doing trying to catch a pike by hand, you strange creature?”

  “Well, Grandad – my father’s father, that is – had managed to hook a monster, but it had become caught in a bit of submerged fence so he sent me in to get it.”

  Matthew peered at me incredulously. “And how old were you?”

  “Ten-ish, I think.”

  “What did he think he was doing? You could have lost a hand!”

  “Um, well, I don’t think he thought about it that much. He said, ‘Don’t let it see you’re frightened, girl; show it who’s in command,’ or something like that. Anyway, it tried to bite me…”

  “Oddly enough,” Matthew muttered.

  “… and I fell in and managed to dislodge the fencing and it escaped – thankfully. I didn’t want to see it stuffed and mounted on the wall.”

  “What did your grandfather say to that?”

  “He wasn’t very pleased. I managed to avoid going fishing with him after that.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” He wrapped his fingers through mine and stroked my palm with his thumb as we took pleasure in our solitude.

  “Will you show me how to tickle trout?”

  “If you would like me to,” he laughed. “I promise I won’t use you as bait. On another note, what do you think of this room?”

  I looked around it again. “Why?”

  “I would value your opinion.”

  “You don’t spend very much time here, do you?”

  “No, not really. I don’t need to.”

  “That’s what it looks like – empty; there’s nothing of you in here. Lovely furniture, wonderful room, of course, but it’s like it’s staged: no photos, no books, no – oh, I don’t know – dressing gown. It’s unlived in.”

  He sighed. “That’s probably because it is. I was afraid of that. I try to make everything look as normal as I can, in case… let’s just say so that it doesn’t invite unwelcome questions, but I can’t seem to get this room right. Perhaps you could help me change that in the future?” His voice softened, and I noticed that he had slipped that bit in as if he were testing the waters, and my heart tumbled haphazardly. I bent my head back to look at him upside down and he kissed the tip of my nose.

  “That sounds good. That sounds very good. How long do you think you will have here before you have to move on?”

  “Another three years or so, perhaps a little longer, before we – before I – become obvious. I’ll be sorry to leave; we all will.” I wondered whether by then I would be leaving with him. “Like to see the rest?” he asked, interrupting my thoughts.

  We were halfway down the stairs when Henry came into the hall with a sheaf of papers in his hand. He looked up as he heard us. “I was coming to find you. When you have a minute I have something I think you’ll want to see.” He raised the papers and an eyebrow, in that instance looking just like Matthew. There was an undercurrent of excitement in his voice, and I saw the query on Matthew’s face, and the sudden light in his eyes.

  “Any chance I could have that cup of tea now and see the rest of the house later?” I suggested.

  Matthew squeezed my hand. “Thank you for that. This is work-related, I’m afraid. I’ll find you as soon as Henry’s shown me these.” He showed me a door on the far right of the hall beyond the staircase and kissed me, not attempting to hide it from his son. “I won’t be long.”

  As they moved across to a door diagonally opposite to where I still stood, Henry was saying something quietly to Matthew about Maggie. I didn’t catch his reply.

  The kitchen had fabulous views looking towards the river on one side and into the sheltered courtyard on the other. Broad, pale wood planks made up the floor, and where the black iron stove would have been, a modern range sat radiating heat. This homely room of light painted wood and glass-fronted cupboards had a disarming simplicity – the finish bespoke – and I wondered if all the family used it or whether this represented part of the stage upon which Matthew acted out a normal life.

  Pat sat reading a newspaper at the old farmhouse table, frameless glasses perched on her nose. A large crate of mixed vegetables bulged on the floor next to her. She looked up when she heard me come in. “There you are!” she greeted me, putting the paper down, rising from the table and kissing me on both cheeks. “Come on in. I’m just about to sort things out for this evening. Are you ready for that cup of tea now, or would you like something to eat? Did you get lunch? Matthew does remember you need to eat, doesn’t he?” She had a clear, down-to-earth voice, gently accented. I nodded before she could force-feed me.

  “Yes, he does – constantly – and no, thank you, I had lunch. I’d love a cup of tea, though. If you show me where everything is, I’ll make it and then give you a hand, if you would like?”

  Pat looked at me over her glasses making her appear like a schoolteacher. “You just sit on down there and let me look after you.” She moved a
cross to the kettle and switched it on, evidently at home in Matthew’s kitchen. I frowned, tried really hard to get my head around the fact that she was his daughter-in-law, found it too much at this stage in the game, and gave up. I settled for sitting on the edge of a chair at the end of the table, trying to look more relaxed than I felt.

  “My son, Dan, and his wife, Jeannie, will be back soon. I don’t know if Matthew’s told you, but they work in pharmaceuticals and they’ve been on some sort of conference these last few days. And Joel… that’s their oldest boy…” Pat took an elegant teapot out of one of the cupboards and lifted the lid, peering into it doubtfully. I wondered if she had used it before, “… will be back on leave tomorrow. We’re fortunate to have him home for Christmas this year.” She opened a narrow door and disappeared, returning a moment later with a small packet. “Won’t your family be missing you this Christmas, Emma?”

  “Yes, I suppose so, but… well, I’m here.”

  She took a moment to assess me, then said, “Yes, you are, and very welcome you are too.” She peered at the packet, then opened it and sniffed the contents, frowning.

  “Pat – may I call you Pat?” I ventured.

  “Why, of course, that’s my name.”

  “I wasn’t sure. Matthew can be quite, er, formal and I don’t know what’s expected in your family.”

  She took me by surprise with a sudden hoot of laughter, reminding me of my mother on sunny days. “He can be very old-fashioned, can’t he? But he’s making sure that… oh my, I suppose I can only explain it in this way: Matthew is just making sure that we understand your position, so that there’s no misunderstanding.”

  “I’m afraid you’ve lost me.”

  “He’s making certain we recognize your status. What you mean to him. That you’re not just a casual… acquaintance.”

  “Yes, I think I’ve got the picture,” I said hurriedly so that she didn’t have to embarrass us both with further explanations. “Even so, Pat, I’d prefer that everyone called me by my name. It could get quite awkward otherwise. It’ll be much less like a college faculty meeting – all titles and no respect.” I found Pat very easy to talk to, a little like my mother in some respects, but without the burden of prior knowledge and family responsibility. And she appeared far more relaxed, despite the fact she tried to look as if she knew what to do with the tea, but clearly hadn’t a clue.

  “I’ll make the tea if you like.” Pat handed me the packet of loose-leaf tea gratefully. “Can I make you a cup?”

  She hid her involuntary grimace well. “I’ll have coffee, and I’ll make it. I’m afraid we’re a family of coffee drinkers – except for Matthew, of course, but then he doesn’t drink anything. I expect you find that strange?”

  I smiled. “I’m getting used to it,” I said, and took the teapot. Boiling water released aromatic bergamot, taking me straight back home in an instant. Loose-leaf Earl Grey: a considerable amount of care had gone into making me feel welcome, even though my presence must have been difficult, whatever Matthew would wish me to believe. “Pat, you wouldn’t happen to have a tea-strainer by any chance?”

  “A tea-strainer?” She glanced dubiously towards a colander hanging on a hook by the sink. “No, I don’t think we do. Can you use anything else?”

  She accepted my offer to help sort vegetables for tomorrow’s evening meal and we gradually emptied the crate into piles of green and brown and orange, until it stood empty. “Enough to feed an army,” I commented.

  “Sure, it’ll take this and then some, especially with Joel home.” She produced stout paper sacks of the sort provided by supermarkets, and we started putting the piles into separate bags.

  “Pat, how does Christmas work here? What’s the normal routine – apart from the vegetables?”

  She laughed. “I reckon that’s the same in all families. Well, we start the celebration on Christmas Eve with a big meal. My grandfather came over from Norway, and it’s been the way we do things in the family since Ellen was crippled.”

  Her directness quite disarmed me, but she eased off her stool and carried a bulky bag of potatoes over to the wood kitchen counter, so didn’t see my reaction at the casual mention of Matthew’s wife. She came back to the table. “After the meal we gather together and each have one gift from around the tree – that’s traditional in Norway – but we have most of our gifts on Christmas Day, as I expect you do?” I must have appeared a little subdued because Pat put a reassuring hand on my arm. “You mustn’t worry, nobody expects anything from you – you’re the guest.” How could I tell her that the whole idea of being trapped around a table making conversation and eating brought me out in a sweat of cold, clawing horror, when my instinct told me to slide away into obscurity and escape? I felt a little better when she added, “And you’ll be next to Matthew, not that he’ll let you sit anywhere else. And then on Christmas Day, we all do our own family things straight off – presents and church and such – and then…” she wavered, seemingly unsure whether to tell me something.

  “What?”

  “Then we all go and see Ellen,” she finished, looking away from me for the first time.

  “Yes, and…?”

  “So Matthew told you?”

  “It’s fine, of course it’s fine – it’s what I’d expect,” I said as if I had known all along, and briefly wondered when Matthew had planned to tell me about this part of the proceedings.

  Pat appeared relieved. “Well, that’s just dandy. I wasn’t sure if you knew. I’m not sure if Jeannie’s going this year anyhow. She’s had a bit of a cold and doesn’t want to risk passing it on to Ellen. Then, when we come back, we have our Christmas dinner, and that takes just for-ever.” She sounded as if she loved every minute of it.

  “You said ‘church’ a moment ago,” I said, moving the conversation away from food.

  “Sure. Henry and I always go to my Lutheran church in the morning – although Henry’s Episcopal – and Harry goes to his church in town.”

  The potatoes had seeded granules of earth on the table and I used the soft edge of my hand to gather them in a pile. “What about the rest of the family?”

  “Oh, they do their own thing, you know?”

  I concentrated on scraping the grains over the precipice and into my other hand. “And Matthew?”

  She knew I was going to ask; I could tell by the way she hesitated, looking uncomfortable.

  “I don’t feel I can say. You’d better ask him yourself.”

  Light seeped from the overcast sky and Pat switched on the low-slung lamp over the kitchen table. In the time it took for her to avoid answering my question and me to find something to fill the awkward silence that followed, she persuaded me to eat and we sat opposite each other – I with my toast and a preserve of some kind, she with her coffee and a bucket-load of questions about my family that she had held back out of politeness.

  I took the opportunity to clear up one or two queries of my own, and I thought that the only approach to take with Pat would be a direct one.

  “I don’t know how this works and, quite frankly, I’m finding it all a bit scary. Joining you for Christmas when you don’t know me or I you is one thing, but our particular set of circumstances makes it downright bizarre. I know Matthew says everything’s fine, but I’m acutely aware of treading on toes – especially Henry’s, given the situation with his mother – and I really need to know from someone less… biased, I suppose, what the real situation is.” I had begun to spread the jam on my toast, but now stopped, knife still in my hand, waiting.

  She set her mug down on the table and looked at me directly. “I can’t pretend this is easy, Emma, but then, as you said, this isn’t a normal situation we find ourselves in. But you can rest easy about Henry – and about me, if it’s any comfort. Matthew’s been very upfront with us, and we’ve known about you for some time.” She picked up her mug and put it to her lips, then put it down again without drinking. “Look, Henry’s realistic. He knows Ellen will die soo
ner or later, and sure, it would have been simpler if she had already gone when Matthew met you, but then that’s just the way the cookie crumbles. Henry wants his father to be happy. Matthew’s been pretty lonely for a long time – ever since I first met him, and that’s longer than I care to remember – and you’ve…” she halted as she heard voices outside the kitchen door, “… you’ve brought him back to life,” she finished rapidly, and then picked up her mug and looked towards the door as it opened.

  “Mom! We thought you might be in here.” The tall, grey-suited man bent to embrace his mother, kissing her on the cheek she offered. He turned to me, holding out his hand. “Hi there, you must be Dr D’Eresby – good to meet you. I’m Dan, and this is my wife, Jeanette.” He indicated the earnest-looking woman next to him.

  Instantly warming to his open manner, I stood up and shook his hand. “Hello, yes, I’m Emma.” And turning to Jeanette, I held out my hand. She took it and I realized with a rush how different it felt to her husband’s: hard, thin, bony, but with little pressure as she shook my hand, as if her heart wasn’t in it. She didn’t say anything, but looked at me inquisitively. Dan loosened his tie and inspected the level of coffee in the pot, muttering cheerfully about the appalling standard of the catering at the conference.

  “I understand you work in the pharmaceutical industry?” I ventured, trying to engage Jeanette.

  “Yes, sure, we both do,” Dan answered, handing a mug of black coffee to his wife and then pouring milk into his own. “We’ve just been to a conference in Ohio. Not much of interest, Mom, but there was one contact we made. Dad and Grand… Matthew’ll be interested.” He directed a sideways look at me to see if I’d caught his slip, but I sat down again and spread the rest of the preserve on my toast, assiduously oblivious. He must be in his forties, but he appeared much younger, whereas Jeanette was clearly middle-aged with her untidy brown hair greying in streaks. Skinny, medium height and slightly olive-skinned, her dark eyes narrow and lined beneath, she carried her years wearily. Her features lacked the refined elegance of the Lynes: her nose ended in a rounded blob and her lips were too thin to be attractive, and when she smiled I thought her chin would wrinkle unevenly. But she had a well-meaning face, if rather serious, and the lack of malice more than made up for her want of beauty. She must have been aware of her appearance of age next to her husband, even if she clearly wasn’t concerned with how she looked. Or was it that she had given up trying? She sat down in the chair next to me. Dan finished his coffee in a gulp. “Where’s Dad, by the way? And I haven’t seen the kids. Joel’s not back yet, is he?”