‘Fine. I shall no longer try to entice you to allow me to cook for you. Tonight, Dominic, we are having chicken. Are you here for supper?’
‘No, I’ve already eaten.’
She looked into his eyes. ‘So can I assume that you’ve already eaten whether we are having coq au vin or just chicken?’
‘Yeah.’ He scowled.
She bent forward and rested her arms on the counter top. Her hands joined together, subconsciously simulating prayer. She brought them up to her forehead and exhaled deeply. Closing her eyes, she spoke to the presence that she could still feel but could no longer see. It was sometimes easier that way.
‘Dominic, is there something going on with you that you want to talk about? Anything upsetting you?’
‘No.’
‘Because you can always talk to me, you know. That’s my job!’
‘There is nothing I have to say that I think you will want to hear.’
‘Well in that case, I really need you to think about the way that you treat people; more specifically, the way that you treat me. I am not your enemy, or the hired help for that matter. I am your mum and I don’t know why you think that it is okay to talk to me like that, but it is not. I know that life is not always perfect for you, but let me tell you, mister, that your life is a lot more perfect than most people’s. I understand that you have the pressures of school work, the distraction of girls and having Dad work here… I know that it’s not always easy, but please, please don’t shut me out. I love you, Dominic, I love you very much.’
Dominic stared at his mother’s back, bent over the kitchen counter, and studied the knobbles at the top of her spine, which were visible through the thin fabric of her shirt.
‘If you must know, Mum, it’s nothing to do with Dad. It’s you.’
‘Me?’ She tried to keep the surprise from her voice, tried to mask the sadness and resignation at his comment. ‘How is it me?’
‘You are just so…’ He fought to find the words as he breathed out from inflated cheeks.
‘So what exactly, Dominic?’
She stood straight now, with her hands on her hips, and he faced her.
‘You’re weird.’
She laughed. It was a quick, loud laugh to hide her nerves, and something else – relief?
‘I’m weird?’
She posed the question and yet did not want to hear the answer.
‘Yes, Mum, you are weird and it is so not funny so I don’t know why you are laughing.’
She noticed that he emphasised the ‘so’. He wasn’t finished.
‘You talk to yourself and people in school notice, my friends notice. You float around the place as though you are only half aware of what you’re doing; it’s like you’re completely bonkers or on drugs or something. You smile even though you are clearly unhappy. It’s like living with someone that’s got a secret; it’s like you know something that no one else does and it sets you apart from us, from me, Dad and Lyds. I feel sometimes like you’re not part of this family and all my mates joke about how bloody strange you are with your clean sheet obsession and it’s shit because it’s true and worst of all it makes me weird by association. It’s just complete shit.’
She looked at her son.
‘I understand, Dominic. It’s shit.’
‘No. No, Mum, you don’t understand and that’s just it.’
He turned and left the room. She was once again alone with her tea towel.
The ghost of his words swirled and spiralled around her form and settled over her like a fine mist. ‘It’s like living with someone that’s got a secret; it’s like you know something that no one else does and it sets you apart from us…’
Clever, clever Dominic. My clever, beautiful boy. He was right, that was exactly what it was like.
Kathryn gathered her thoughts and tried to focus on something, anything other than the ache of her son’s words and the manner in which he had felt it appropriate to deliver them. She was sifting through the encounter, trying to pick out any tiny positives, when in walked Lydia with an oversized sketch pad shoved under her arm.
‘What’s for tea?’
‘Hi, Lydia, yes I’m fine, thank you, my day was fairly good and how are you?’
‘What?’
‘Never mind. It’s chicken.’
‘Just chicken? Yuk. That is so totally boring.’
‘Well it’s coq au vin actually with steamed fresh green beans and purple sprouting broccoli.’
‘Oh, well why didn’t you say that? God, Mum, sometimes you can be so—’
Kathryn held up her hand, interrupting her daughter’s flow before she had the chance to throw any fuel on her already broken spirit.
‘Yes, Lydia, I know. I have an inability to accurately describe supper. Forgive me. I am weird beyond belief. I’m an embarrassment to you, life is shit and it’s all my fault, everything from world famine to the war in the Middle East, global warming, the current economic crisis and of course the fact that Luca Petronatti won’t go out with you. It is all my fault, all of it. You can quite legitimately blame me for everything.’
Lydia was speedy with her retort.
‘Are you menopausal? Is that what this is all about?’
‘Probably, Lydia.’
‘I’ll eat in my room.’
Lydia marched back into the hallway and up the stairs. That was it, end of discussion. Kathryn tried to imagine a similar conversation with her own mother. She tried to imagine first of all enquiring about the state of her mother’s biological cycle, commenting on it and then demanding in so many words that her supper be waitressed up to her room. She could of course imagine neither, for she wouldn’t have dared or wanted to. Things had been different.
Opening the cupboard door, she turned the tin of peas to face the ‘right way’. For the first few years of their marriage, the tasks that Kathryn performed which required detailed and careful instruction were varied and numerous. Up until then she had inadvertently been executing many tasks wrongly. Who knew? Not she. She had been blissfully unaware that there was a right way to put honey on toast, a right way to make coffee in a cafetière. Luckily, Mark was on hand to help her realise the error of her ways.
The list was long and meticulous. Tins had to be stacked no more than three high and with all the labels facing outwards; when opened with a tin opener, their lids had to be removed entirely – never, ever left jagged and hanging by a thin hinge of metal – and placed inside the empty tin for disposal.
A carpet had always to be vacuumed in straight horizontal lines, allowing you to follow the previous edge – haphazardly roaming around a room until you were sure that you had covered each area at least once was out of the question. There was a right way to store socks (balled together with its opposite number and placed in colour-coordinated order in the drawer); a right way to stack a dishwasher, fold a towel, tie and dispose of a bin bag, brush your teeth, park the car, drive the car, feed the children, comb and cut your hair, make the bed, polish the floor, address the neighbours, write Christmas cards, answer the phone, dress, walk, talk, think…
Mark Brooker always entered a room loudly, even if he didn’t say a word. He never simply arrived anywhere. It was as if he always had to announce his presence, like an actor walking onto the set of an American sitcom. As his head appeared around the door, Kathryn always half expected to hear clapping and canned laughter, merely at the fact of his arrival.
He came to where she stood and eclipsed her with his form.
‘Good evening, Kathryn.’
‘Hello, Mark.’
‘You look neat and pretty.’
She smiled weakly up at him. ‘Thank you.’
‘Something smells good. What’s for supper?’
‘It’s… err… it’s…’
‘It’s… err… it’s… what?’ His tone was clipped, through his smiling mouth.
‘It’s chicken… It’s coq au vin… Chicken.’
‘Chicken coq au vin chicke
n. Splendid.’
He pulled her face into his hands and kissed her hard and full on the mouth before turning on his heel and retiring to his study. She waited until the door clicked in its frame before raising the checked tea towel to her mouth and wiping away the moist evidence of his presence.
She set the table for the two of them; her lips ached and swelled slightly from his aggressive contact. Her mind flitted to an evening during their courtship. They had been in the bar at University College, London, among a small group of fellow students, when the conversation shifted to the subject of working women. There was the usual banter about chaining wives to sinks and the old jokes about why were women married in white? To match the rest of the household appliances – boom boom! How they all laughed.
After walking her home, Mark had turned to her as they stood in her parents’ doorway.
‘You will stay at home, won’t you, gorgeous? You’ll stay at home and grow our babies and I will look after you so that you never have to worry about a thing, not one single thing.’
She smiled up at him.
‘Well, Mark, I will stay at home eventually, when I do have babies, but up until then, I definitely want to teach. I want to use my degree. I think I’ll be really good! I certainly love my subject and I’m very patient – unlike a certain someone I could name!’
‘Impatient, moi? It’s not my fault if most of the kids that get shoved in front of me are retards. I need a better calibre of child, one without the IQ of a pot plant!’
‘Ah, what is it they say? “A bad workman blames his tools.” Is it the same for bad teachers?’
Suddenly and without any warning, Mark grabbed her right wrist, lifted her hand up to her own face, and laughed.
‘Stop slapping yourself, you silly girl!’
He was laughing and smiling as he slapped her hand across her own face, hard. For a moment, she was too shocked to react. Then realisation dawned and she clenched her muscles and splayed her fingers taut. But he was much stronger and simply carried on making her hit herself in the face.
‘Stop it! Stop it, Kathryn! You silly girl!’
She cried and gulped air in surprise. It was some seconds before he stopped abruptly.
‘Oh my darling! Why are you crying?’
She looked into his beautiful pale blue eyes as her own pooled with tears.
‘Because you hurt me, Mark.’
He crushed her to him, folded his duffel coat around her and spoke softly into her scalp.
‘Baby, baby, it was just a joke! I love you and I would never hurt you intentionally. I would rather die than hurt you.’
She had been shaken when the mirror revealed an angry red mark across the side of her face.
As Kathryn positioned the table mats, coasters and the salt and pepper centrally on the table, she reflected that this, among many other things that Mark did and said, was a lie. He would not rather die than hurt her. This she knew for a fact.
At eight o’clock, with supper finished, the various masters began trickling in and making themselves comfortable in the kitchen. She circled the room, dispensing wine and mineral water into sparklingly clean glasses whilst nodding, smiling and commenting where appropriate or necessary.
‘Yes, it is unusually mild.’
‘Thank you, yes, I am well, very well.’
‘Dominic? Oh, you know, studying hard.’
‘The first eleven? Oh, it’s against Taunton School, I think.’
‘For aphides, I trust a mixture of vinegar and water, liberally sprayed.’
Kathryn looked at the rag-taggle group of old men clad in their fusty corduroy garments. Collectively they gave off the faintest whiff of decay. Thick tufts of hair sprouted from ears and noses – the kind of thing that an attentive wife would have taken care of. Their teeth were also neglected. She imagined them as a group of ageing penguins, squawking and jostling for position even though no one else in the world was the tiniest bit interested in anything they did or said.
At approximately ten past eight Mark made his grand entrance.
‘Good evening one and all!’
He stood by the opened door and Kathryn noticed a flicker of hesitation, correctly guessing that he considered bowing before deciding against it.
The assembled crowd nodded their heads and muttered incomprehensibly, honoured to be in the presence of their esteemed head, waiting to hear what wisdom would follow that dazzling smile and its flash of whitened, straightened teeth.
‘Right, gentlemen, shall we get started?’
Mark rubbed his palms together with Faginesque enthusiasm.
The masters took their positions around the kitchen table, each man’s status apparent by how close he sat to Mark.
‘Agenda item number one: the Excellence in Education Awards, which I may or may not have had a tip-off about today—’
Before he even finished the sentence there was a chorus of comment from around the table.
‘Oh well done, Headmaster!’
‘Bloody marvellous news, Mark!’
‘Much deserved, old chap, really much deserved!’
Kathryn, having heard enough, slipped into the sitting room and closed the door behind her. She crept silently over to the telephone table, opened the drawer and carefully removed the copy of Tom Jones that she had placed at the back, secreted away for just such an occasion. She picked up the novel and ran her fingers over its cover, feeling a small yet familiar surge of happiness, knowing that she could snatch a few minutes of reading until her services were required again. She knew the drill: fifteen minutes to allow proceedings to get underway, then back into the kitchen to serve canapés and dips.
Kathryn sat in the comfy chair in front of the window and dived in.
The reader will be pleased, I believe, to return with me to Sophia. She passed the night, after we saw her last, in no very agreeable manner. Sleep befriended her but little, and dreams less. In the morning, when Mrs Honour, her maid, attended her, at the usual hour, she was found already up and drest.
She fell into the pages happily and allowed herself to slip into the world created by Henry Fielding.
Reading was Kathryn’s greatest passion and her only escape. She had always known that it was a very dangerous thing; if a book was good enough, it could rob her of time and awareness, and would entirely consume her, forcing her to take every step with the characters, unable to pull away for fear of leaving them in limbo. This was how it was for Kathryn that night. And when she heard the sitting room door bang loudly against the wall, eighteen minutes had passed – not the agreed fifteen.
She dropped the book without regard for its welfare, caring not that the lovely Sophia would be tumbling downwards unprotected to land with a thump in darkness. Her husband remained by the opened door, saying and doing nothing, his expression blank. She tried not to catch his eye as she sidled past him and into the kitchen. Not one word was spoken between them.
Offering a muted apology to the guests, Kathryn quickly removed the cling film from her canapés and uncorked another bottle of chilled medium white. She waltzed around the kitchen distributing plates and napkins before circulating again with platters of goodies; all were eagerly received and consumed with the appropriate appreciation and thanks. Crumbs littered grey-streaked beards, and sauces and dips were dripped onto ties and lapels. A job well done.
It was gone eleven o’clock by the time all the guests had left. The dishwasher whirred away, the table had been wiped clean, mats and coasters were restored to their drawers and the chairs pushed in just so.
Kathryn climbed the stairs and entered their bedroom. She walked with a measured pace, not over eager to reach her destination, but aware that any delay would only put off the inevitable.
It was a beautiful room. The high ceiling and ornate period coving complemented the magnificent wallpaper design of peonies and cabbage roses whose many shades of aubergine and purple petals looked so real you wanted their scent to invade you. Two large sash window
s overlooked the sports field, although at this time of night the roman blinds obscured the view. The carpet was cream and topped with bottle-green rugs to give just the right amount of underfoot snugness. The antique bed was large and grand, with deep floral carvings in the mahogany headboard. It had belonged to Mark’s grandmother and was much admired, but Kathryn hated it intensely. She often dreamed of it being consumed by woodworm until nothing remained but a tiny pile of dust and a very fat worm.
For all its beauty, the room held fearsome associations for Kathryn. She was always taken aback when visitors made approving, envious comments: she fully expected them to inhale the misery that lodged in every nook and cranny and would not have been surprised to see the oceans of tears she had cried seeping from the walls and the mattress, forming pools on the floor.
Kathryn removed her shoes and skirt. She paired her tan leather loafers with their heels together under the old, overstuffed, chintz-covered chair that sat in the corner of the room. Her skirt she rezipped and folded in half before hanging over the back of the same chair. Her shirt she rolled into a ball and placed in the wicker laundry basket along with her discarded pants and bra. She undid her earrings and pearl necklace, carefully placing them in the jewellery box on the dressing table. She brushed and flossed her teeth and combed her hair, removing all traces of make-up. Finally she slipped into one of five identical white cotton nightdresses that she owned. They were rather long, plain and Shaker in style, each with a Peter Pan collar and small ivory buttons at the base of pin-tuck pleats on the cuff and neck.
Kathryn then knelt at the foot of the bed, bowed her head and waited. Just as she had done every single night for the last seventeen years and five months.
She heard the creak of the top stair, followed by the telltale tap of wedding ring against wooden banister rail. Her muscles tensed as they always did at the familiar sounds; it made no difference how many times she had heard them. Finally she heard the bedroom door snap shut into the frame and the scraping of the old brass key in its lock.
The creep of fear plucked at her muscles, invaded her bones and pricked at her skin. Closing her eyes briefly, she shuddered involuntarily as her heart performed its customary jump.
What Have I Done? Page 13
