Resisting Mr Rochester

by Sharon Booth

  "But it's April," I said. "That's a Christmas carol. You can't play Christmas carols in April."

  "Nonsense. We can celebrate the birth of our Lord at any time," she said briskly. "Now, let's begin."

  I'd thought the piano lesson would be fun, but it turned out to be dull and difficult. I couldn't understand anything she was saying about the marks on the music sheet, but I managed to copy her movements as she played the first line of the carol, over and over again. After half an hour, though, I was bored and rather annoyed. In between playing, over the ticking of the clock, I could just about hear the sound of the television coming from the next room, and imagined my family sitting in there, watching a programme, laughing, talking to each other, feeling relaxed and happy, while I sat there, a prisoner of Granny Reed.

  On top of that, I could feel the man with God's voice staring down at me. I half expected his booming God voice to shout at me when I made a mistake. The back of my neck prickled with unease, the dust made my nose twitch, and the musky, damp smell made me feel nauseous.

  "Needs tuning," Granny said, finally closing the lid of the piano, to my enormous relief. "I'll get someone in before your next visit." She went over to the fireplace and blew out the candle.

  I remembered the churning feeling in my stomach at her words. Was it to be a regular thing, then? Were my visits to Granny Reed always going to involve that sort of torture?

  I’d glanced across at Mary, as she hovered in the clouds. She gazed serenely back at me. The piano lessons were probably my punishment for not being pretty like Tamsin, or clever like Redmond. I sighed. I had an awful feeling it was going to be a very long time before I mastered The First Noel. Christmas carols would never give me the same pleasure again.

  From the next room came the sound of laughter, as my family clearly found something amusing on the television.

  Right there and then, in the White Room, was the moment I knew for sure what the difference was between me and my siblings. They were good enough, and I wasn't. They were accepted and loved, just for being themselves. They were already perfect, and just what other people wanted.

  I, on the other hand, was not. I wasn't pretty and popular like Tamsin. I wasn't clever and sporty like Redmond. I was small, plain, and of average intelligence, at best. If I wanted people to like me, I had to do something extraordinary, be something better than I already was.

  And I didn't have a clue how to go about it.

  "You want to know why I can't leave Seth?" I said, as Tamsin and I headed back toward The Cock and Bull. "Really?"

  "Of course." She fastened the top button of her coat and shivered in the icy wind.

  "Because no one ever wanted me, just as I was, before him, and no one ever will again. And I can't be any better than this. This," I said, waving a hand over my duffle-coat clad form, "is as good as it gets. So Seth is as good as I can expect."

  I waited for her to protest, to argue that I was being ridiculous, defeatist, negative. Instead, she stuck her hands in her pockets and began to run. "Come on. It's freezing out here. Time for a brandy!"

  I guess that said it all.

  Chapter Three

  "Seth," I said, sitting beside him on the sofa, something I hadn't done for quite a while, "why are you here?"

  He tilted his head, and I could practically hear the cogs whirring in his brain.

  I sighed, knowing what he was thinking. "I don't mean in an existential way. I'm not looking to start some deep and meaningful philosophical argument. I mean, why are you here, with me? After all this time?"

  He frowned. "What a peculiar question. I'm here because I love you. Why else would I be here?"

  "But do you?" I just didn't know anymore. It seemed to me that the burning passion between us had long since dampened down until there was barely a flicker of flame left. The bonfire of our romance was in danger of becoming a pile of ashes. If it hadn't already. "Are you sure, or is it just something you say, without thinking?"

  He studied my face, as if checking for signs of madness. I waited for him to say something studied and profound—or at least mildly reassuring. "Is your period due?" he enquired.

  Frowning, I stood up. "I'll make the tea."

  As I wandered into the kitchen, he called after me, "Have you had a bad day at work?"

  "Just the usual," I replied, which must have satisfied him, because he went back to watching his favourite quiz show, Pointless, on the television.

  Had I had a bad day at work? Well, no worse than usual. Most of the children were okay. Some, however, were little monsters, who lashed out and swore when they couldn't get their own way. Not their fault. Jilly and I had long since realised that those children were merely copying their parents. Our theories had been proven correct each time we had meetings with parents to discuss their offspring's worrying behaviour, and we were told, in no uncertain terms, that there was nothing wrong with the kids, and it was clearly down to our crappy teaching, and we'd better watch what we were saying, or there'd be trouble.

  Some of the children, however, were absolute darlings, and there were a couple who were so funny and sweet and lovable, they made my insides contract with longing for my own child.

  While I fried some mince and diced onions in a pan, I brooded on my childless future. I'd never really thought much about having kids when I was younger. I hadn’t even played with dolls, unlike Tamsin. She’d gone through the whole pretend motherhood thing with her dolls. She used to comb their hair, and dress them up, and stick a plastic baby bottle in their mouths, then push them around in her miniature Silver Cross pram. She took it all very seriously, much as she did real motherhood. As soon as Alice arrived, she'd given up work to stay at home and look after her, and she devoted her life to making sure they ate properly, did their homework, and attended so many out-of-school activities, it was a wonder they were ever at home.

  I thought about her Facebook status on Saturday morning.

  Happy weekend, people! Just back from shopping. Have treated myself to another gorgeous Jenny Kingston handbag! A girl can never have too many handbags, whatever the husband says! Taking child one to dance class, then later, child two to a party! Busy, busy, busy!

  I supposed I could always have updated my own status.

  Evening, people! Just back from a hard day at work! Have treated myself to a bag of salt and vinegar crisps. A girl can never have too many calories, whatever the scales say! Now making shepherd's pie while unemployed boyfriend watches television quiz! Pointless!

  And that was how it all felt, really. Pointless. I supposed it was a good thing that we didn't have kids. I couldn't imagine Seth taking care of them. He was far too absorbed in his own life, and how could I afford to take time off work to be a full-time mother?

  Luckily, Seth had made it very clear that he didn't want children, because they would only tie him down. He hadn't wanted to get married either, because marriage would only tie him down, too. It was also the reason he gave for not getting a job. Seth clearly didn't like being ‘tied down’, at all—apart from in the bedroom, which, frankly, was tough luck on him.

  When he complained about my lack of adventure in that department, I explained that his refusal to be tied down meant that I had to work hard enough to support the pair of us, and that left me too tired to tie him down, which was ironic, if you like. He could hardly complain about that, could he, so he shut up, just in case the argument escalated and I brought up the subject of him finding a job again.

  So, all in all, I couldn't imagine that I'd ever be a mother. I was thirty, after all. The biological clock was ticking. Maybe it was for the best. Let's face it, with our combined genes, no child of ours would have much of a start in life. Knowing our luck, it would have my looks and Seth's work ethic, which would doom it to a truly gloomy future.

  With the shepherd's pie in the oven, I made him a coffee and myself a tea, and carried the drinks into the living room, wrinkling my nose at the smell of marijuana. The pungent aroma had hit me the
moment I got home from work, and the Mars wrappers had been a dead giveaway, too. Dope always gave him the munchies. I wondered how he'd got the money that time.

  "Have you had company today?" I asked, handing him the mug of coffee and sitting on the chair opposite him.

  He nodded. "Naomi and Isolde came over."

  I'd guessed as much. His sister smoked dope on a regular basis, as did her friend. Isolde was another sponger, though in her case, her parents never minded. They were loaded and had set her up in her own flat, and paid her a generous monthly allowance. They didn't really care what she did, so long as she didn't bother them. To be fair to Isolde, with parents like that, I wasn’t surprised she'd turned out the way she had. Though, what Seth's and Naomi's excuse was, I couldn't imagine, since their father was a decent, hardworking and thoroughly moral man, who quite despaired of his children's lifestyle and was always very kind to me on the rare occasions we met.

  "Naomi's had another massive row with Dad."

  "Oh, for goodness sake! Every time you see her, she's had a row with him. Don't you get bored listening to her moaning on every day?"

  He looked quite surprised at the thought. "Of course I don't. She's my sister."

  "And he's your father! And he's a nice bloke. I don't understand your problem with him." To be honest, I never had, although I'd sort of pretended that I did, when Seth and I first got together. After all, I wanted Seth to believe I was on his side, no matter what. I was very good at hiding my own opinions.

  "How can you say that? You know he's done nothing but try to suppress us all our lives. If Mother had lived, it would have been different. She would have let us have our creative freedom, and she'd never have forced us to go to that awful school."

  That awful school, I'd eventually discovered, was only considered awful because they'd required that Seth and Naomi make the effort to learn something, which they both agreed was an infringement of their human rights and would delay the blossoming of their artistic talents—a trauma from which they considered they were still suffering.

  I couldn't be bothered to get into another argument about it all, though. I was tired, hungry, and faintly nauseous from the sweet, sickly smell of the marijuana.

  "Anyway," Seth continued, "there won't be any more arguments. Naomi's moving out."

  "Moving out?" I was grudgingly impressed. "You mean she's actually going to get off her backside and support herself?"

  He looked quite offended. "She's moving in with Isolde. It’ll work out for the best. She can write her songs and play her guitar without him complaining about the noise all the time. She's happy to doss down there."

  I snorted in disgust. "Doss down! Isolde has a luxurious three-bedroomed penthouse apartment! She's hardly going to be sleeping on the floor and eating beans out of a can, is she? God, talk about landing on your feet."

  He seemed alarmed by my bitterness. "What on earth's wrong with you today? I really don't like this side of you, Cara. It's quite off-putting, to be honest."

  "Well, I'm very sorry, I'm sure," I said, not feeling sorry, at all. "Maybe I'm just tired of being the only mug who actually works for a living around here. Maybe I'm fed up with going out to that nursery every day, to be ignored by naughty children and threatened by loutish parents. Maybe I'm sick of having to catch that bus every day, to sit with people who clearly don't know what a bar of soap looks like. Especially given the fact that you and your friends seem to do nothing but sit on your arses all day and smoke that crap, which, by the way, absolutely stinks. You know I hate it! Can't you, just for once, think about me?"

  I'd never verbally complained before about Naomi and Isolde visiting him so often, though I'd long resented it. They rarely came round when they knew I'd be home, but would plonk themselves on my sofa the minute I'd headed off to work, and while I slaved away all day to earn money, they sat in my flat, smoking, and eating me out of house and home. They were bad for Seth, because they provided him with free joints, and told him how wonderful he was, and generally pandered to his ego all day.

  Isolde, thin and pale with spiky blue hair, a pierced nose, and an eclectic assortment of tattoos, had once told me I'd ruined Seth's life, which I thought was a bit rich.

  ‘You've spoilt him,’ she told me. ‘You let him walk all over you, and you pampered him and crushed his creativity. An artist needs to be lean and hungry, and full of anger. You're making him soft. How can he compose poetry, when you're dosing him up on sausage casserole and chocolate digestives?’

  ‘Better than dosing him up on cannabis,’ I'd retorted, stung by her cheek.

  Did she think I went out to work and supported him for the fun of it? I was supporting myself. The fact that I was also putting a roof over his head and food in his stomach was an unfortunate by-product of that.

  ‘At least cannabis helps him to connect with his soul,’ she’d said darkly. ‘You have no idea about art, clearly.’

  ‘And you have no idea about rent and electricity bills, and finding bus fares to get to work at the end of the month,’ I said. ‘We all have our weaknesses.’

  She'd given me a look of disgust and gone back into the living room to fawn over Seth.

  Naomi told me once that I had no need to fear Isolde's obvious lust for him. ‘He only has eyes for you,’ she’d told me. ‘You're his soulmate.’

  ‘I was his soulmate when he shagged your other mate, Gina,’ I pointed out. ‘Didn't stop him, though, did it?’

  She’d tutted. ‘That was just physical,’ she’d said scornfully, as if it meant nothing. ‘There was no spiritual connection, whatsoever.’ She said it as though it should’ve been obvious, and I was being deliberately dim.

  I supposed I was, but not in the way she meant.

  Seth was quiet for a moment, as if trying to digest the fact that I'd broken out of my cage and actually told him what I thought. In truth, I was quite surprised myself. I mean, I'd thought all those things for ages, but I'd never actually said them. I couldn't believe I'd had the nerve.

  "Sorry," I heard myself say. "I'll check on the shepherd's pie."

  As I stood up, he caught my hand. "Things will get better," he told me, his expression earnest. "I've put a plan into action. I'm going to be bringing in some money very soon, and then maybe you and I can have a holiday together. You could do with a break."

  I stared at him. "You mean, you've got a job?"

  He smiled. "Sort of. You'll see. All in good time."

  My heart lifted, and I smiled back. "That's wonderful. I'll warm up that apple crumble for afters to celebrate, then you can tell me all about it."

  He loved apple crumble, I thought, rushing into the kitchen and checking on the progress of the shepherd's pie. A few minutes more, I decided, before opening the fridge door to take out the crumble.

  It wasn't there. The dish it had been in was still there, but there was nothing left in it, except a few crumbs and a large spoon. I clearly hadn't noticed earlier when I’d taken out the mince.

  My heart sank, and I tried to push down the resentment I felt. No doubt the three of them had finished it off that afternoon. Brilliant. And they hadn't even had the decency to wash the dish after them.

  Forcing myself to stay calm, I focused on the fact that, at last, I wouldn't be the only breadwinner in the family. A holiday! Where would we go, I wondered? Neither of us had a passport, so probably not abroad, as paying for passports would just be an added expense. And I couldn't imagine that the job would pay much. Seth had no experience and no qualifications, but nevertheless, it was a job, and a new start. There was hope. Maybe life would start to improve at last. Maybe, I thought, tearfully, Granny Reed was up there somewhere, looking out for me. Perhaps she'd forgiven me for being selfish and stupid and irresponsible, and for running off with a vicar's son.

  I hoped so, anyway.

  Thinking of Granny, I wandered toward the spare bedroom where Granny’s piano had taken up residence. I'd taken to running my hand over it every day, though I wasn
't sure why. It had arrived a week ago, much to Seth's dismay, and looked quite elegant, actually. Mum had polished it until it gleamed, and Dad had paid for a professional piano tuner to ‘knock it into shape’, as he put it. I wished I could find room for it in the living room, rather than hiding it away in the spare bedroom. I was even considering having lessons, if I could ever put enough money by to pay for them. Wasn't like I could use the five hundred pounds. That was safely in my bank account, in case of an unexpectedly high bill, or a broken washing machine, or some other such catastrophe.

  I stopped dead as soon as I entered the room, my heart thudding with dread.

  Where the piano had stood was an empty space. Apart from a box of Seth's old vinyl albums, and a pile of magazines which I'd never dared examine too closely, the bedroom was bare.

  I stormed into the living room. "The piano! Where is it?"

  Seth beamed at me. "Gone."

  "Gone? Gone where?"

  He seemed to sense that I wasn't too happy about the fact, and his smile dropped. "What's wrong with you? Thought you'd be pleased."

  "Pleased about what? What have you done with it?"

  "I sold it."

  I dropped onto the sofa, overwhelmed with feelings I couldn't put a name to. "Sold it?"

  He looked a bit uncertain. "Isolde put it on Facebook for us. Some friend of hers snapped it up. Came to pick it up today. Two hundred and fifty pounds!"

  Something scarily unfamiliar began burning inside me. Something so huge, it seemed to be rendering me unable to speak. With enormous effort, I managed, "How dare you?"

  He blinked. "What do you mean? I've done you a favour. It was just stuck there in that room, and you said yourself you always hated having to play the damn thing when you went to see the old woman."

  "It was my piano!” My voice sounded very strange. “Nothing to do with you. Nothing to do with Isolde. What the hell gave you the right to sell it behind my back?"

  He shifted uneasily. "It wasn't behind your back, exactly. It was meant to be a surprise. Two hundred and fifty pounds, Cara!"