by Rebecca Tope
Without the car, she had a thirty-minute walk, out of town and down towards the river. She didn’t care who might see her. It didn’t matter now, after all. But it was with a slight flush of embarrassment that she met Jodie, who had worked with Jim at the printworks. The girl was walking purposefully towards her on the pavement outside the last few shops before the fields began. Lorraine didn’t know where Jodie lived, but assumed she was walking to work. Jim had said something about her being mad keen on walking. They’d seen each other at the pub, and round about town, but had seldom spoken. There seemed no real reason to say anything now, but Lorraine hesitated, just the same. Ought she to acknowledge the implications of Jim’s death for Jodie?
But Jodie must have been late; she merely nodded, without breaking stride. Lorraine swallowed down her sense of offence and ploughed on, wishing she could be there, instantly, by teleportation, without this tedious journey. Too many thoughts crowded into her head, encouraged by the rhythm of her stride. Phrases formed themselves, unbidden: What gives you the right to be jealous? You were just his bit on the side. His bimbo. It’s his wife that should be doing this, not you. Pictures of Jim making love with Roxanne tried to invade her mind, but she kept them out. Which secrets had he told her? Was he just a lying bastard, who took his fun wherever it was offered?
At the field gate, she hesitated, staring at the caravan, wondering whether Roxanne was inside it. She was running low on determination, suddenly nervous. Was she being a complete fool? What was she going to say?
The Hereford bullocks didn’t bother her; even if they had, she would not have given Roxanne the satisfaction of betraying any nervousness. Everyone thinks I’m silly and empty-headed, she thought crossly. Just because I’m blonde and pretty. Even Jim hadn’t expected much in the way of intelligent conversation.
Roxanne opened the caravan door and stood at the top of the steps, waiting for her, as she covered the second half of the field. Something ancient and strange struck Lorraine. It was unusual to be observed so closely as you approached a person’s home, Lorraine realised. Nobody stood or sat at their doors any more, waiting for whoever might come by. The first thing you knew was a knock or a ring at the door, which sent you into a fluster of curiosity and apprehension. The patient scrutiny which Roxanne could give her visitors was witchlike, almost predatory. A female spider waiting for someone to walk into her web. Lorraine forced herself on, increasingly self-conscious and unprepared for the encounter to come.
The face that greeted her was smiling. Not in any kind of scorn or mockery, but kindly, even sympathetically. A sadness in the deep-set brown eyes gave the smile sincerity. Lorraine felt a sudden urge to throw herself into this woman’s arms, so great was her relief.
‘Hi!’ said Roxanne, as if the meeting had been long arranged and anticipated.
‘You know who I am?’
‘Course I do. Lorraine. You drink at the King’s Head. Married to Frank Dunlop. His auntie Mary was my mum’s best friend.’
‘I never knew that.’
‘Small town, Bradbourne. Coffee?’
‘Okay. Oh – maybe not, actually.’ The anticipated taste of coffee was suddenly repugnant to her, reinforcing the conviction that she was pregnant. Barely three weeks and already all the same old unpleasantnesses were returning. ‘I’ll just have water or squash or something, if you’ve got it.’
‘You’ve come about Jim.’ Roxanne was matter-of-fact.
‘Yes.’ Tears filled her eyes. Was it possible that she would be able to cry with this woman, openly grieving for a relationship which was meant to be a secret?
‘Unusual man, our Jim,’ Roxanne added quietly. ‘A lot of people are going to miss him.’
‘Oh dear.’ Lorraine sat down on a narrow seat under the caravan window and gave up the struggle against her emotion. She sobbed noisily, tears trickling abundantly down her face. She rummaged for a hanky, finding only a small ladylike one in a pocket of her jeans. Roxanne poured something from a stoneware jug into a glass and handed it to her.
‘Elderflower,’ she said. ‘My speciality.’
Lorraine took it, and sipped awkwardly. ‘Sorry,’ she said, waving the damp hanky in explanation.
‘No need to be. Nothing wrong with a good cry.’
‘It’s just—’
‘Yeah. I know. Bloody rotten business. Leaves everything up in the air.’
‘I came – actually – to ask you—’
‘I know,’ said Roxanne again. ‘Funny how the rumours get going once a person dies. There we were, thinking our secrets were safe. Now I bet the whole town’s talking about both of us.’
‘Oh, no! Not me. I mean – we were terribly careful.’
‘I knew,’ said Roxanne flatly. ‘And so did Pauline. Can’t believe it’d just be us two. The thing is, lovey, most people don’t care. They’re having their own little carryings-on, and it makes them feel better knowing it’s not just them.’
‘Pauline?’
‘My sister. Monica Lapsford’s friend. Best friend, she likes to think. You’d know her by sight, probably. She’s always out and about, collecting lame ducks.’
‘But—Well, if you and Jim were … you know, that makes me feel … less important. As if I didn’t matter to him. Not as much as I thought I did, anyway. And … wasn’t it a bit odd, your sister, I mean, being Jim’s wife’s friend? Wasn’t it awfully complicated?’
Roxanne shrugged. ‘Course it was. But that’s life. And I know what you mean, about not mattering. Everybody wants to be special. But it doesn’t work like that, not really. Even when a man has a wife and two lovers, the trick is to live for the moment and enjoy it while it lasts. Jim taught me that, bless him.’
‘Do you think it was just us, or might there be others as well?’
‘Not recently, no. But Jim was Jim. And the world’s full of good-looking women.’
‘He didn’t ever say anything? About me, I mean?’ She sipped again at the drink. It tasted wonderful. More than wonderful.
Roxanne smiled. ‘He never said anything you wouldn’t have liked to hear,’ she said ambiguously. ‘He had his own rules – it’s just that they weren’t like other people’s.’ Lorraine watched Roxanne’s nose turn pink, and her eyes grow shiny. Never before had she felt such a sense of sharing. She put her glass down, and stood up, keeping her eyes on Roxanne’s. Without a word, they hugged, tight and hard, the ghost of Jim Lapsford pushing them together, bonding them with a cosmic superglue.
Laughing and crying, they finally let go. Lorraine felt warm. Consoled. ‘This is ridiculous,’ she said weakly. ‘I came to pick a fight with you.’
‘What would’ve been the point of that? If Jim was still alive, maybe there’d be some sense in it – but not much, even then. He was never going to choose between us, or leave his missus for you or me. The way I see it, we were both bloody lucky. Jim was more than anybody deserved.’
Again a mutual sniffing and loss of lip control. Lorraine tried to speak, but couldn’t get the breath. She sat down on the bench again and leant her head back against the window. ‘Why did he have to die?’ she wept. ‘I never dreamt that this might happen.’
Roxanne shook her head, her dark hair seeming to have a life of its own, suggesting Medusa or Cleopatra. Lorraine watched her, feeling again the tight hug, aware of the woman’s physical presence. There was a magnetism to her, something earthy and knowing. Lorraine waited for an answer to her question.
‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ said Roxanne. ‘I don’t think why is a sensible question. Not unless you think somebody deliberately murdered him. Otherwise, there isn’t a reason. I always thought people’s deaths were somehow all bound up with the way they lived. Do you know what I mean?’
Lorraine shook her head slightly. ‘Not really,’ she said.
‘It sounds daft, probably. But you see it all the time. Miserable, self-sacrificing women get breast cancer. Bad tempered men, always shouting and in a rush, get heart attacks.’
‘No. That’s what I’m saying. Or what I was going to say. It feels all wrong. Jim was going to do such a lot. I don’t think people with plans die like he did. Something stops it happening.’
‘But he did die.’
‘Yeah. So they say. Fuck it.’
Monica phoned Philip at work. ‘Phil, you’ll have to do something about David. He’s in a terrible state,’ she said, with no preamble.
‘God, Mum – what do you want me to do? What sort of a state?’
‘Well – I don’t want to go into it now, but he’s come out with a whole lot of nonsense, and I’m worried about what he might do.’
‘I’m at work,’ he hissed, and she realised that somebody else was in the room with him. ‘I can’t do anything now. I’m going to be up to my eyes all afternoon.’
Sometimes Monica thought, this son, still in his twenties, sounded positively middle-aged. Jim would never have talked about being ‘up to his eyes’ in anything. Jim had understood how to keep everything in due balance – work, play, family and friends.
‘Phil,’ she said, wearily. ‘I don’t often ask you for help. It’s Friday and your brother needs you. Can’t you just take some time off for once?’
‘Not really. Not unless you convince me that this is serious. David’s a big boy now. He doesn’t need me to hold his hand. What’s he going to think if I turn up and start acting like Mother Teresa? Where is he, anyway?’
‘I don’t know for sure. But you didn’t see him. He was very disturbed. Like he used to be.’
Philip sighed heavily. ‘Well if he’s really as bad as that, we should call an ambulance. Get some white-coats to take him in hand. I’m not confronting him when he’s like that. He might take a knife to me.’
Monica bit her tongue, holding back the angry remark she wanted to make. ‘Okay,’ she said, as calmly as she could, ‘do what you can. When you can. I haven’t got anybody else to ask, remember.’
Philip grinned sheepishly at Colin, who sat across the office from him. ‘Trouble?’ Colin enquired.
‘Families,’ Philip shrugged, and rolled his eyes for good measure. His colleagues knew his father had died, and were showing mild sympathy, but he was expected to continue working uninterruptedly. Philip was in Research and Development, on a trial basis. If he did well, he could stay and make an interesting and lucrative niche for himself. If he did not do well, he would be shunted back to Sales, which was a move he dreaded. He had loathed the insincerity, the relentless good cheer required of him; the ill-concealed sneer on the faces of those he tried to persuade to become customers.
But he knew there was little prospect of giving the work his attention for the rest of the day, not after that phone call. Sifting quickly through the papers on his desk, and checking the scarcely-begun design on his computer screen, he chose two small tasks which could be easily finished. Philip prided himself on his skill at making a good impression. His folders were always neatly labelled, his reports and ideas perfectly presented. The substance might eventually be recognised as only slightly better than average, but he was gambling on establishing himself as the right man for the job before that happened.
His mother’s request couldn’t be ignored. Half an hour later, he made the papers neat on the desk, and saved the computer file to a floppy disk. ‘Er, Colin,’ he said, tentatively. ‘I’ve done as much as I usefully can on this job. I need to check a few prices before I can go any further. And, well – you heard that phone call. My mother’s in a tizzy about things. I think I should go and sort that out now, and then put in a bit more time on my computer at home. Okay?’ He raised the disk and waggled it at Colin, who pursed his lips dubiously.
‘Well, you shouldn’t take it out of the office, you know. That’s highly confidential, the state it’s at. If anyone gets hold of it now, there’ll be hell to pay.’
‘I know. I won’t take it, if you think it’s a problem. I just wanted to make up the time.’
‘I wouldn’t worry about that, mate. These things happen – and it is Friday.’
Philip had known this would be the response, and he obediently slid the disk back into a small box, and locked it into his desk drawer.
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I’ll be in bright and early on Monday. But you haven’t forgotten I’ll be off all day Tuesday, have you?’
‘No problem. Give your mother my condolences, won’t you. Must have been a nasty shock for her.’
‘Thanks. She’s coping very well, considering.’
‘Good,’ said Colin absently, his attention already withdrawn. A brief shudder of rage went through Philip. Where are my condolences? he thought. Wasn’t it just as much of a shock for me?
He drove to his brother’s ground floor flat, and ran up to the front door. Without ringing the bell, he turned the handle and found it was open, the yale lock clipped back. ‘David?’ he called. ‘Are you there?’
A chinking noise came from the kitchen, and he went to investigate. His brother was standing by the sink, his feet surrounded by broken crockery, a blank look on his face.
‘Christ, what have you been doing?’ Philip scanned the scene, looking for blood – or a weapon. David had never been seriously violent, but Philip could remember times when he had come close. Since David’s return from his long disappearance, his parents and brother had done their best to behave normally; all along, Jim had argued for this strategy, refusing to consult doctors. ‘Ruin his chances for life, that would,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing wrong with the lad – just loses control of himself from time to time. He’ll grow out of it, you see.’
And Philip had reluctantly agreed with his father. Everything he had seen or heard about the mental health system led him to the same conclusion as Jim’s. He’d heard about people labelled ‘schizophrenic’ after a single episode of aggressive or bizarre behaviour. But that didn’t make him feel any more comfortable right now.
‘Did you know about it?’ said David, lightly.
‘Know about what?’
‘Me not being his son. That Jim Lapsford was not my father.’
‘Don’t be stupid. I remember you as a baby. Of course you’re his son.’
David stared at him, through narrowed eyes. His foot stirred some shards of china, making them tinkle musically on the stone tiles. ‘Exactly what do you remember?’ His voice was bright, taut.
Philip tried to think. ‘Well, I was only three. I remember Mum holding you, all wrapped in a blue shawl. I remember your hands, tight little fists. And your hair was wispy. I could see your bare head underneath.’
‘Well, the fact is, I was adopted when I was two – not a baby at all. They never told you, then?’
‘Not a word. I assumed that it was all the normal routine. You were with us as a baby. The formalities must have taken a long time, that’s all.’ He sat down on an upright kitchen chair. ‘Did all this come out today?’
‘I saw my birth certificate years ago. When I was nineteen—’
‘Shit, Dave – is that why you went away? Why didn’t you tell me at the time?’
‘It wasn’t that simple. I didn’t know if I’d just dreamt it. I was in a state about other stuff, as well. Drugs. Girls. It all happened at once. And they’d just figured out that I had that Whatsit Deficit thing, that made me feel like a freak.’
‘I always did think that was daft,’ said Philip. ‘You were a little tearaway, I admit. But we took it in our stride. Some kids are like that. You were funny, as well. Kept me well entertained, you did. It wasn’t all gloom and doom, Dave. You know it wasn’t. Anyway, what’s been happening today, to lead to all this?’ He eyed the debris on the floor and wrinkled his nose disapprovingly.
‘I went round there, and asked her for the whole story. She just said they adopted me when I was two. Wouldn’t say any more than that until I was less “wrought up”, whatever that means.’
‘We definitely had you as a baby. I remember holding you. But I wa
s only a tiny kid myself. It’s all blurred together. Somebody died, and Dad cried. I remember that. Cried for days. I was petrified. That was later, though. I was going to school, so I must have been four, nearly five. You were walking. I remember you coming with Mum to collect me after school. Hell, Dave, you can’t rely on anything I tell you. It’s all so hazy.’
David sighed, and Philip was relieved to note that he seemed much calmer. The broken crockery, however, was a tangible reminder than nothing was ever sure where his brother was concerned. He struggled to remember the early years, when they’d lived in a small village four or five miles away. They went back to look at the old house once in a while, marvelling at how poky and old-fashioned it was. Philip had been eight when they moved to Primrose Close. The house had been brand new, with a rough patch of sandy ground for a garden and paintwork so clean it had seemed more like some big new toy than a house. Jim had been promoted at the printworks, and Monica had got herself a job as a school dinner lady, when David started school full-time, so suddenly there was money for new house, new car and a dishwasher. The perfect family.
‘She’ll have to tell you the whole story,’ Philip said. ‘Won’t she? I mean, it’s your right. You could find it out anyway, from the Registrar or whoever it is.’
David nodded. ‘I know. But until then, I’m imagining all sorts of things. I mean – we always lived round here. There must be loads of people who know about me, and never said. I’ve been betrayed, that’s what. It’s a shitty feeling.’
Philip shook his head. ‘I’ve never heard so much as a whisper. Mum didn’t get friendly with Pauline till you and Craig were at school, so I bet she doesn’t know anything. There might be one or two social workers or health visitors who’d remember, but that’s probably all.’
David sighed again, and worked his hands, opening and closing them into tight fists. ‘I feel – shredded by it all,’ he said fiercely.
‘Well,’ Philip began, trying to sound in control, ‘this should be easy enough to sort out. I mean, it isn’t really so awful, is it? You had a good childhood. We got along well enough.’
