Sweets From Morocco

by Jo Verity

  ‘No. I’ll grant you that. But you were provoked and clearly you didn’t kill him. The police would have tracked you down in a couple of days if you had. And Rundle didn’t report the attack or they would have found you within hours. You said you phoned him?’

  ‘Yes, once. From the hospital. But the phone had been disconnected.’

  Matthew stood up and stretched. ‘Rundle isn’t a common name. It shouldn’t be difficult to find him if you feel the need to. I’d be prepared to help, if that’s what you want.’

  ‘Is that what you lot call “closure”?’ she asked.

  ‘Blimey. Don’t tell me you’ve been reading Teach yourself Psychiatry, Miss Swinburne.’

  As Lewis was leaving after his weekend visit, Tessa asked, ‘Could you dig out the family photos? I’ve spent months talking to Matthew about the past. I reckon I’m ready to take a look at it.’

  Next time he came, they spent a couple of hours going through the photographs in the old shoebox, studying and reliving each moment captured within the borders of the dog-eared snaps. Everyone was there. Their parents. Gran. Assorted aunts and uncles, cars and family pets.

  And there were numerous photos of Tessa and him, side by side on beaches and promenades, in parks and gardens. Dark-eyed and open-faced, what a striking pair they made. One image touched him more than the rest. They must have been four or five years old and someone had taken them – Gran, maybe – to see Father Christmas in one of the posh stores. There they stood, in matching coats, staring directly into the lens, Tessa clutching a small parcel in her gloved hands. Two bright, brave creatures, full of hope.

  XI

  1998

  Chapter 43

  Tessa stirred her coffee and watched a pat of butter melt into the toasted teacake on the plate in front of her. Opening the newspaper, she turned to the crossword.

  The café was no more than fifteen minutes walk from the house – a pleasant stroll through a leafy park – and, over the months, she had become quite a ‘regular’ here. Whenever possible she sat at the table in the corner, an excellent vantage point from which to observe the general comings and goings, and to enjoy being part of something satisfyingly ordinary. The proprietor didn’t seem to mind how long she stayed but, in return for his forbearance, she made sure to vacate the table before the lunchtime rush.

  On her way home Tessa called at the corner shop for a few bits and pieces. Lewis was coming for supper and she needed to buy mushrooms for a pasta sauce.

  She saw her brother less often these days. He had his own life to lead and, although he never let on, she knew that he had a great deal of patching up to do with Kirsty.

  Matthew had devoted many of their sessions to Lewis. He’d fished around, clearly trying to establish whether there was anything ‘unnatural’ in their relationship. Initially she’d found it offensive but, as time went on and her trust in him grew, she accepted that it was necessary to rule this out. ‘It’s unusual for sister and brother to remain as close as you two have. They tend to drift apart once they reach puberty.’ ‘We drank a lot of potions; mingled a lot of blood,’ she’d confided. ‘Potions, incantations, voodoo dolls. Never fails.’

  She was sharing a house with four other women. They were all at varying stages in their rehabilitation. Living there gave them a breathing space before they had to – what was that phrase? – ‘get back on the horse’. Marilyn had been working at the council offices for some time and was about ready to move into a place of her own. Dee had arrived only two weeks ago and was still finding her feet. Tessa had been the same when she was ‘the new girl’. In the communal kitchen or on the way to the bathroom, she’d been forced to exchange a few words with the others. But having lost the knack of exchanging small talk with strangers, she’d found it easier to keep to herself, listening to disembodied voices on the far side of her locked door. Her socialisation took a leap forward when, one evening, the lights in the house fused. They’d pooled torches and know-how and, once the power was restored, they’d sent Alice to the ‘chippie’ for celebratory fish and chips. That evening, the house began to feel like home and the women with whom she shared it became if not friends then certainly allies.

  ‘Something smells good.’ Lewis held out a carton of ice cream. ‘My contribution.’ He kissed her. ‘You look well.’

  ‘I can’t say the same for you,’ Tessa countered.

  They carried their meal up to her room.

  Sometimes when Lewis came, they ate in the kitchen with whoever happened to be around. Lewis was a ladies’ man, although he didn’t know it. It was obvious that Marilyn, Dee, Alice and Leanne found him utterly charming and it was amusing to watch them adapt their behaviour when he was there, toning down bad language and even flirting a little. Polite and gentle, amusing and considerate, he was, from what Tessa gleaned, a different species from the men they usually met. She was absurdly proud that he was her brother.

  ‘Everything okay?’ This was Lewis’s shorthand for Are you taking your medication?

  ‘Yes, fine thanks. How about you?’ Are you as unhappy as I suspect you are?

  ‘Oh … you know.’

  She kept a kettle in her room and, when they’d finished eating, she made coffee in the cafetire which Lewis had given her for her last birthday. ‘I’ve been thinking about what I should do next. A “halfway house” is, by definition, not the final destination. I need to make plans.’

  Lewis looked anxious. ‘Have they said anything?’

  ‘No. And I don’t think they will. It’s up to me. I’ll have to decide when I’m ready to move on.’

  ‘And are you?’

  ‘I think I am.’ It was the first time she’d dared voice this thought. ‘I’ve done my sums and as long as I’m sensible I should be fine. The State is surprisingly charitable to the elderly ex-nutter.’

  Lewis frowned. ‘It’s not economics that concern me.’

  She smiled. ‘I know it’s not. You’re wondering why it should be any better next time.’

  He tugged his ear but said nothing.

  ‘I was ill, Lewis. The accident really shook me up. And then prison…’ She laid a hand on his forearm. ‘A lot of complicated stuff went on – stuff that you don’t need to know about. It was all festering away for a long time. And before you start beating yourself up, there was nothing you could have done to prevent what happened. Nothing.’ She patted his hand. ‘That’s all done with now.’

  Lewis nodded and they sat for a few minutes in thoughtful silence.

  ‘Dan was a nice guy.’ There was regret in her brother’s declaration.

  ‘He was. I made a lot of duff decisions but not marrying Dan Coates was one of the few correct ones. We did have lots of good times together but I was using him as a sort of human lifebelt, to stop me drowning in one load of shit after another – some of it real, some of it imagined, but all of it my own making. Dan didn’t deserve that.’

  ‘I read in one of the supplements that he’s married an American woman. An artist, I think.’

  ‘Yes. I heard from him a couple of weeks ago, actually.’

  ‘You keep in touch?’ He sounded surprised.

  ‘Not really. He sent the letter to my publisher and they forwarded it. But I will write back. Nothing heavy. Just to wish them a happy life.’

  ‘“A happy life.” It sounds so bloody simple. I’ll take a couple of those, please.’

  She reached across the table and pulled his cup towards her, spat in the coffee and stirred it. Closing her eyes, she lifted the cup and drank from it. ‘Now you.’

  He laughed and shook his head. ‘You’re round the bend.’

  There had been months and months when Lewis wouldn’t have dared accuse her of that and she loved the sound of it.

  ‘Do as I say. Drink it and then make a wish.’

  He hesitated then raised the cup to his lips.

  When it was time for him to leave, she went down to see him off. A fine drizzle moistened the air and they both got
in the car to keep dry.

  ‘Had any thoughts on where you might like to live?’ he asked.

  ‘Matthew was asking me that last week. It’s not straightforward. I’ve been trying to work out where I belong. Where my heart lies, if you like.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Not Birmingham, that’s for sure. And although I spent years in London and I know – or used to know – a few people there, the prospect of living in a city is too daunting.’

  ‘So that leaves here? Yorkshire?’

  ‘Here. And home.’ She shrugged. ‘Weird, isn’t it? I left the place when I was eighteen but I still call it “home”. It’s been bugging me why that is and I’ve come to the conclusion that it might have been different if I’d ever made a proper home anywhere. A one-husband-two-point-four-kids-and-a-dog sort of home. But I’ve spent years avoiding that sort of commitment; never putting down roots, never unpacking my baggage – the mental variety, I mean; always eyeing the greener grass.’ She smiled. ‘Sorry to sound so corny.’

  ‘Actually its rather quaint coming from you.’ He reached across, opening the glove compartment and pulling out a bag of sweets. ‘If Matthew Collins were to ask me the same question, I could pinpoint the spot where I belong.’

  She unfurled a sweet wrapper and popped the stripy mint into her mouth. ‘Cranwell Lodge.’

  He nodded. ‘I belonged at Cranwell Lodge from the instant we went through the door. How old were we?’

  She didn’t hesitate. ‘Nineteen fifty-three. I was nine, you were eight. You had blood trickling down your arm. I can still smell Germolene and dusty cushions; still hear the bird twittering away in the corner.’

  ‘Mrs Channing?’

  ‘Blanche, you idiot.’ She punched him gently on the thigh.

  ‘I didn’t really understand that I belonged there until I moved to Bristol.’

  ‘Who’s in the house at the moment?’

  ‘No one. The decorators are in. Kirsty thinks I should put it on the market now that house prices are rising again. I’ll have to come up with a pretty good reason not to.’

  The rain was getting more persistent and the light fading. ‘Best be on your way. Thanks for coming.’ Tessa leaned across and kissed Lewis’s cheek. ‘Drive safely.’

  She stood on the pavement, barely noticing the rain, waiting until the tail lights of his car disappeared around the corner.

  Kirsty was stacking the dishwasher, Lewis bundling newspapers for recycling. They hadn’t spoken since supper when Lewis had mentioned that, when he’d seen Tessa the previous evening, she’d talked about leaving the house.

  Kirsty pressed the button and the machine began its cycle. ‘I’ll say this now, so that you know exactly where I stand. I will not have her here.’

  Lewis took a deep breath, ‘But she has no one else in the world. Not one single soul.’

  ‘As you’ve mentioned a hundred times before.’ Kirsty closed her eyes. ‘Look. What if you – we – lived in Australia? She’d have to cope on her own, wouldn’t she?’

  ‘Yes but we don’t live in Australia so I can’t see how that helps.’ He cut a length of string and tied the last bundle of papers. ‘If we converted the garage, she could be virtually self-contained.’

  ‘She could but she wouldn’t. This is Tessa we’re talking about here. I’ve watched you two for years and I’ve seen how it works.’

  ‘That’s not entirely fair. When she was with Dan, I only saw her once in a blue moon. And I had scarcely had anything to do with her when she lived in Birmingham.’

  Kirsty shook her head. ‘That’s bollocks and you know it. What did Diana say? “There were three of us in the marriage.” She may have been barking mad but I can sympathise with her on that score.’

  ‘I can’t help what I feel, can I?’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose you can. But d’you know what? I’ve given up caring what you feel. It’s what you do that matters. You’ve allowed your sister to dictate every decision you’ve ever made and to wreck every relationship you’ve ever had. I could understand – understand mind, not condone – if there were something physical between you. But there isn’t. It’s worse than that. Tessa fucks your mind. She always has.’ It sounded doubly obscene coming from his rational wife.

  He looked out of the window. The cherry tree was in full blossom, the tips of its branches weighed down with a froth of pink florets. They’d planted the tree when they moved in, almost ten years ago. As he watched, a breeze swooped through the garden, sending a cascade of petals swirling across the lawn.

  ‘I might as well finish.’ Kirsty sat at the table, leaning on her elbows, her forehead cupped in her hands. ‘Gordon’s disappearance was a terrible, terrible thing. But terrible things happen to people all the time. And they survive. Life goes on. Not your family, though. They wallowed in it. Your father became bitter and dictatorial. If your poor mother showed the slightest sign of fighting back, he slapped her down. It was criminal the way he convinced her, and everyone else, that she was an invalid. And you, Lewis, you revelled in the role of little boy, eager to please, scared stiff of making waves. While all this was going on, Tessa just ran wild. She treated you all appallingly. She worried your parents to death, running away like that. Then writing those trashy novels, cashing in on the family tragedy. And she hasn’t changed. You’d think that causing an old man’s death and going to jail would have brought her to her senses. But no, she had to play the martyr and get you running around the country after her. Can’t you see how calculated her every action is?’

  ‘You’re being very harsh. Her breakdown was real enough.’

  ‘Was it?’

  Pink petals danced across the grass. There had been a flowering cherry at Medway Avenue, at the far end of the garden just this side of the vegetable plot. Up in its branches, he’d been safe from everything. He shut his eyes, feeling the smooth bole beneath his hands, watching his feet in scuffed sandals, as they sought out a decent toehold.

  ‘Why have you stuck with me?’ he asked.

  ‘Pride. Obstinacy. Delusion. The usual suspects.’ She picked at the skin next to her thumbnail. ‘I did love you, Lewis. That’s the shame of it.’ She laughed but there was no mirth in it. ‘I sound like Celia Johnson. All stiff upper lip and common sense. I don’t feel like that, though. I ought to be coming at you with a meat cleaver.’

  Did. I did love you. So there it was – the past tense that would shape their future.

  XII

  2005

  Chapter 44

  Lewis hauled his briefcase off the back seat and locked the car. Its bodywork, covered with dust after the dry week, was disfigured with initials and witticisms – also comes in silver, wish Shazzer was this filthy. Nothing innovative but the spelling was better than usual.

  He walked up the path and let himself in through the front door. ‘It’s me,’ he shouted into the silence. ‘Anyone at home?’

  A voice came from upstairs. ‘No.’ Followed almost immediately by, ‘Put the kettle on. I’ll be down in a minute. I’m printing something out.’

  He draped his jacket over the newel post and went to do as he’d been instructed. The kitchen smelled of burnt toast and overripe fruit. He studied the table. A dictionary. A spiral-bound notebook. Several pens – minus their caps. A pair of secateurs. Three dirty mugs. Half a packet of digestive biscuits. A banana skin – completely brown.

  He opened the windows, rolled up his sleeves and was clearing the table when Tessa appeared.

  ‘Stop. Leave that.’ She pushed him aside. ‘You must be home early. I was just about to tidy up.’

  She was wearing a velour dressing gown over a thick shirt and jeans, the bottoms of which were tucked into woollen walking socks.

  Lewis frowned. ‘Why on earth have you got all those clothes on? It’s way up in the seventies.’

  ‘I’m freezing. Feel.’ She grabbed his hands and he was shocked to feel how cold hers were.

  ‘You’ve been sitting in front of that scr
een too long. You should take regular breaks. Go for a walk. Get the blood circulating.’

  ‘Yes, Mum.’ A smile took ten years off her tired face. ‘Actually, I did. I went to the park – threw stones at the ducks.’ She raised a finger to her lips. ‘Sorry. I mean bread. I threw bread at the ducks.’

  ‘Did you hit any?’ he laughed, glad to be home.

  They sat at the kitchen table drinking tea. Whilst he flicked through the evening paper, Tessa studied her notebook, every now and again striking something out or scribbling in the margin.

  Their first contact of the day was generally around this time. Tessa referred to it as their ‘Typhoo Tea ceremony’. She was asleep when he left in the morning, then once she started working she preferred not to be distracted. If they needed to ‘talk’ during the day they texted or emailed. She’d only once come to the school. The secretary had interrupted his lesson. ‘Your sister’s here, Mr Swinburne. She says it’s very important.’ Full of foreboding, he’d followed her back to the office. It was raining but Tessa wasn’t wearing a waterproof and her wet hair was dripping on to her blouse. ‘Are you okay?’ ‘Of course I am. I had to tell you straight away. My collection won the Darrio Prize.’ She’d hugged him, pressing a letter into his hand but he was too busy calming his heart to make sense of the words.

  ‘Any post?’ he asked, tossing the paper aside.

  Tessa picked up the clutch of envelopes that were propped against the microwave and shuffled through them. ‘A gas bill. Something – nasty I’m sure – from the Inland Revenue. A card from the optician’s saying your specs are ready. And,’ she held up a cream envelope, waving it like a miniature flag, ‘a letter from Kirsty.’

  He took the envelopes, pushing the one from Kirsty into his trouser pocket. ‘I’m going up to change.’