Eleanor glanced at Kat, busy now trying to entice Titch down from the gate post. Her own room. It felt odd to want something and not want it all at the same time. ‘Could it be blue?’
‘Blue? Of course it can be blue. It can be anything you want. You can choose. But first to our labours here, eh?’ He swung the fork at the ground, ramming it up to its hilt under a cluster of tall thistles, making their purple bell heads shake in protest. ‘We plough the fields and scatter,’ he sang in his shouty voice, ‘…but it is fed and watered by God’s almighty hand.’
Eleanor crouched down to dig more gingerly at a patch of nettles. She was sorry her mother was still so sick, but it did feel much better having her father back, working alongside them.
9
April 2013 – Cape Town
Nick’s serve landed exactly where he had planned, springing wide over the tramlines, but not with as much pace as he had intended. His opponent, a seasoned club member in his early forties, was on top of it in seconds, firing a low cross-court drive and racing up to the net in preparation to administer the obvious volley winner. Nick arrived late to the ball but managed a last-minute flick of the wrist as he struck it so that instead of shooting back on the obvious trajectory, it sailed high over his adversary’s head, landing an inch inside the baseline and securing him the crucial five–three lead he had been hoping for. It was the final set. He had only to break serve again, or hold his own, and victory would be his.
Nick glanced at the stands where his daughters and Donna had based themselves, only slightly disappointed, and not remotely surprised, to see that they were empty. The three of them had been popping in and out regularly during the course of the final, for snacks and toilet breaks, and to watch Mike Scammell, their neighbour, who happened to be playing as a doubles guest on the next-door court. Nick was deeply touched that his family had bothered to come at all, even if two lame horses had been the reason. The tennis club ran so many tournaments and he often did well in them, so it was hardly a momentous occasion. In addition to which, the April weather was blowy, not ideal for sitting out in.
As they changed ends, Nick paused to swig from his water bottle. Through the fencing behind the stands, he glimpsed Donna’s red jacket and a smudge of blue that was probably Nat’s denim one. Sasha was in her old grey hoody, but he couldn’t see her. Doubles was always more fun to watch, but as a player Nick preferred singles, the focus it required, the absolute responsibility it demanded. To concentrate completely on something – anything – was a form of relaxation, as he had found himself trying to explain to Kat when he eventually got around to writing a proper email back to her, latching onto the subject both because it interested him and because it seemed to fulfil her somewhat curious stipulations. No raking up of the past. Nothing personal. Whatever did that even mean anyway? How could one write to an old acquaintance without being ‘personal’? And Kat had, for a couple of years anyway, been integral to his past, so that didn’t make much sense either. Brooding on such questions after what had proved a very pleasant evening with Donna’s relatives, Nick had resolved not to bother with a proper reply.
During the ensuing days, however, the matter kept pestering him, like a loose tooth. Soon, Kat’s stipulations began to feel like a challenge from which he had shied away. Possible subjects began to present themselves, including the art of tennis. His response, when he got to it, became something of an essay, a relaxing act of concentration in itself. He crafted and reworked several versions before eventually sending it on its way. When there was no immediate response, Nick wondered if Kat had suffered similar doubts and changed her mind.
But then, after a week, a witty email arrived, describing the tribe of humanity – of which Kat claimed to be an affiliate – mysteriously incapable of making contact with any moving sporting objects. Nick had replied in the same light-hearted vein, asking if she had ever considered tiddlywinks or poker as alternative pastimes. A series of amusing and enjoyable exchanges had ensued, covering the degree of hand-eye coordination required for firing plastic counters and whether gambling could ever be regarded as a sport.
Next it had been clouds – had Nick heard of the Cloud Appreciation Society? (he hadn’t); then theories as to why pet owners grew to resemble their pets; then some joint musings as to the reasons jazz music sent some people into ecstasy and others crawling up the wall. And so it had gone on, sporadic, harmless, left-of-centre exchanges which invariably made Nick chuckle, or stop and think, and then be eager for more. There was such clarity and colour in her language, and yet an alluring down-to-earth-ness too. If ever – rarely – he caught her out on some detail, she was only too happy to retreat and apologise, usually with a joke at her own expense.
Kat, can I say how much I am enjoying our communications, he had ventured in a recent missive, it makes me wonder what we talked about when we were together. What the hell DID we ever talk about??
I’ve no idea, and it doesn’t matter, she had shot back, and you are breaking the cardinal rule. The olden days and private stuff are out of bounds, remember?
It took a while for Nick to realise that the tennis match was slipping from his grasp. Not only had his opponent managed to hold his service game but had done so with such ease that he was now attacking Nick’s with new and dangerous self-belief. The man’s first two returns had been clear winners and he was now springing round on the balls of his feet, eager to slam the third. Nick took a deep breath. At a certain level, sport was always a battle of minds. He had let his concentration drift, that was the trouble, done exactly the opposite of what he had told Kat he was good at. He had allowed himself to believe that the work of winning was done when it was still all to do. He might write to Kat about that too, one day.
Nick took his time assembling himself to serve again. The girls were back in their seats, although there was no sign of Donna. Natalie was on her phone, but her younger sister was watching him intently, looking faintly troubled. An ace, Nick told himself, straight down the middle, shaving the outer edge of the line. He shot Sasha a wink and began to bounce the ball. He bounced it seven times, slowly, rhythmically, shutting out not just his daughter but the whole world, making his opponent wait, making the moment his.
10
1985 – Sussex
Vincent ran his finger round the inside of his dog collar. He could never remember an April being so hot. It was almost May, but still. Even in the cool stone interior of St Winifred’s, he was sweating.
He checked over his shoulder again, across the empty pews, for any signs of arrivals for his new Bible Reading class. He had been mentioning it at the end of services all month and pinned a reminder in capital letters on the church board. And yet already the hands on his wristwatch had edged round to ten minutes past the appointed hour.
People led such busy lives, he reminded himself. Only a foolish priest would feel personal rejection.
His Bible lay open on his lap, a pleasant balanced weight across his knees. An anchor. Vincent dropped his gaze, experiencing a rush of joy at the familiar words. St John, chapter 3. Nicodemus quizzing Jesus. But then the page blurred and his head was full of Connie, the need to make her see sense, to guard her from the treachery of the outside world.
Vincent forced the page back into focus, tracing the tip of his index finger down its tissue-smoothness. The poetry of the language alone made him want to weep. Jesus spoke so beautifully and yet Nicodemus had been so literal-minded. Every time Jesus described a truth, the hapless man had pressed for more: The wind bloweth where it listeth and thou hearest the sound thereof, but canst not tell whence it cometh, and whither it goeth: so is every one that is born of the spirit.
And yet still Nicodemus hadn’t been satisfied. Good old Nicodemus. Like him, needing to have things spelt out, prosaically, in order to fend off the rages of doubt. Rages of doubt were normal. That was the consolation.
Vincent sighed as he read on.
For God sent not his Son into the world to condemn the worl
d; but that the world through him might be saved… light is come into the world, and men loved darkness rather than light, because their deeds were evil.
Light and dark. Dark and light. Polar opposites and yet sometimes it was hard to know the difference.
A creak ricocheted into the silence like a gunshot. Vincent spun round to see that St Winifred’s stout oak door had swung ajar. A cloud of light hovered in the gap, illuminating silver flecks in the grey stone slabs of the floor and walls.
‘Hello?’ Vincent carefully closed the Bible and stood up, peering towards the hazy beams. ‘Con?’
Please God, he prayed, let it be Connie.
That morning he had tried to persuade her to come to the class. Not deploying ‘religious’ reasons – he knew far better than to raise those – but saying she might find it interesting. She had muttered darkly and turned her back on him, her body a hard S under the bedcovers.
Wanting the S to soften, Vincent had tried to kiss her, meeting only the sharp ledge of her cheekbone through her hair. She was still cross with him about Kat, he knew; with Eleanor in her new room, their youngest had tried the night before, and on several previous occasions, to crawl into their bed and he had had to be firm.
‘I love you, Con,’ he had murmured that morning, nuzzling his nose deeper to drink in her scent but also wanting the reassurance that there was nothing untoward laced within it. There couldn’t be, of course, not any more. Not now they had the new routine. He dropped the girls off in the morning, leaving the exact bus money for Connie to make the return journey to fetch and accompany them home. Vincent would have preferred she didn’t go out at all, but with busybodies like Mrs Owens around, it was important to keep up appearances, to stifle fuel for gossip. Apart from that, Connie had no funds and was no longer allowed to go anywhere unaccompanied. The car had been out of bounds for weeks. He kept both sets of keys on him to be sure.
But recently Vincent feared he had detected the hint of something alien on her skin in spite of these precautions – not just alcohol, but possibly aftershave. His thoughts had lurched to their neighbour, whose ramshackle farmhouse was set in a dip of land barely half a mile behind the vicarage. Broughton’s main street might be a three-mile hike away, but the Watson man was close. Still only in his thirties, the farmer was swarthy and lonely, having lost his wife to cancer several years before. All he had now was the boy Charlie, who was at school all day. To have such thoughts sickened Vincent, but it was Connie’s fault. She had history and she was determined; that was the problem. Anything was possible with Connie.
And yet outwardly his wife seemed to have embraced the new curfew. She was surly, but he was used to that. Behind the surliness, he had been sensing a new docility to her. Doing the supermarket shop that week, now a strictly joint venture at his insistence, she had thrown several bags of lemons into the trolley and then, the moment they got home, diligently set about converting them into curds, sorbets and tarts. The girls had been briefly interested but drifted away when it became clear their assistance was surplus to their mother’s requirements.
And just that morning, in spite of the sulking, she had swept into the kitchen just as he and the girls were finishing breakfast, pulled on her tatty, stained apron over her nightie and declared that the day’s project was to be lemon cordial, the old fashioned-kind. She had asked him to reach down her favourite green jug from the top shelf and started lining up the chopping board and various pudding basins, chattering to the girls about how delicious it would be. She had paused in her preparations to help them find their satchels and kiss them goodbye, and then rushed out to the drive to kiss them again.
Before the lemons, there had been sewing, days and days of it. She had ransacked cupboards and drawers, unearthing clothes that needed attention. The sitting room sofa had been her station for the task, the garments growing around her like a carapace as she stitched and patched, replacing buttons, letting seams out and hems down, driving the girls mad with her demands for their cooperation.
Sitting in the hot church, Vincent experienced a rush of tenderness as he pondered these labours. The daily cleaning chores were being neglected as usual, but they had the old sourpuss Mrs Owens to pick up the slack there. Connie was trying hard, that was what mattered. It reminded him of the bursts of energy during the early days – the fundraising ventures and all the sweet second-guesses of his own meagre bachelor wants – days when Connie had welcomed her need of him instead of resisting it. Days when no force had been necessary. But he would win her round again, Vincent vowed. Get her to see the rightness of submission, rejoice in it.
The church door swung shut with a groan, taking the cloud of light with it and bringing Vincent fully to his senses. It was obviously time to give up on the class. If he was quick, he could grab a bite of lunch at home. He had a busy afternoon ahead of him – a long-promised visit to The Bressingham nursing home, followed by the monthly Monday meeting with his churchwardens. They would be gathering as usual at Hilda de Mowbray’s imposing manor house on the far side of Broughton, under pressure to do so from Hilda herself, a formidably wealthy widow and churchwarden whose generosity to the church funds made her bidding difficult to refuse.
Vincent was dreading it, both for the tedium of the largely administrative agenda and Hilda’s palpably oppressive sense of self-worth. He would sip Earl Grey, which he didn’t like, from the hand-painted heirloom bone-china cups, doing his best to steer the meeting rather than give up on it, wondering all the while how far Mrs Owen’s concerns about his private life had spread beyond Mrs Owen. The cleaner had been cooperative and dead-pan since her Easter holiday in the West Country, but that told him nothing.
Village talk was like the leak in the vestry, Vincent mused gloomily, quickening his pace as he hurried under the shadowy canopy of the birch wood, finding new outlets even after you thought you had got it fixed.
During lunch break that day Eleanor took her book to the patch of shade in the corner of the playground. It meant she could keep an eye on Kat through the meshed fence dividing the Broughton Grammar’s senior and junior school playgrounds while at the same time tracking Jane Eyre’s doomed attempts to escape the clutches of the hateful Reed family.
Eleanor didn’t like the heat much and would have preferred a quiet nook in the library, but that wasn’t allowed. Breaks were for ‘fresh air’, her form teacher said, even when, like that day, it didn’t feel particularly fresh. Rainy air was fresh, in Eleanor’s view, but when it rained, they were made to stay inside. She had made this very point in class that morning, only to be told off for being ‘precocious’. Looking the word up in the school library dictionary, she had been confused. How could someone be told off for having faculties that develop early?
Though the junior portion of the playground was much smaller, they had a lot more fun by the look of things. At least, Kat always appeared happy. That day, she was part of a hopscotch group, waiting her turn to throw a stone into the chalked squares and then launching off on one of her spindly legs to retrieve it. When she saw Eleanor watching, she was halfway through a go. She waved and overbalanced, making a meal of the fall. Eleanor anxiously got to her feet but sank back down when it became clear the writhing was thanks to giggles. Kat’s little companions were soon clustered about her, hands on hips, joining in with the laughter.
A book could be used as a shield, Eleanor had discovered. A book said I am busy, go away. If held at the right angle, she didn’t even have to see the gaggle of girls she most dreaded, the troupe who trailed round the sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued Isabel Kirby like weedy bodyguards, hanging on her every word. That lunch break they were on the gym steps as usual, sniggering and pretending to smoke pencils, their grey school skirts hitched halfway up their thighs. They had bagged the back row of the classroom on the first day of the summer term, from where they exerted their dark, invisible pressure on the class, making rude gestures and faces when teachers’ backs were turned and flicking pellets at the necks of those refus
ing to share the joke. Eleanor, sitting in the front row, had become so frequent a target that she had taken to wearing her thick dark brush of hair loose, for protection. The pellets were made of paper and spittle and if fired hard enough could sting as well as cause annoyance.
‘What’s that you’re reading then?’
Eleanor’s eyes stopped mid-sentence, but she did not look up. She had found Jane Eyre on a returns pile in the library the week before, read it in one gulp and decided to start it again. She was still in the opening pages, sharing Jane’s ordeal of being locked in the ‘red room’, where the ghost of the uncle prowled the shadows. Even in the heat, on a second reading, it was giving her goosebumps.
‘I asked you a question.’
Eleanor allowed her face to appear over the top of the pages, aware as she did so of the faint scent of lemon on her clothes. It made her think of her mother, the new version who was always ill, or asleep, or busy with other things, like sewing and cooking. She looked as she always did, and said the same sorts of things she always had, and yet it felt increasingly to Eleanor that she didn’t mean them. Like she was there, but also not there. Occasionally, like someone bursting out of a dream, she would seem to try and make up for this absence by lunging at her and Kat with hugs so hard they hurt and whispering soft things they couldn’t understand. Like that morning, running out of the house to grab them in the drive, her rings and nails snagging in their hair.
Isobel Kirby sniggered. ‘Cat’s got her tongue.’
In spite of the discomfort of the moment, Eleanor felt a surge of frustration at having a mother so patently unsatisfactory compared to the ones other children enjoyed. Children like the girl before her, with her cocky plaits and tight skirts, who was deposited and collected at the school gates by a handsome ruddy-cheeked woman driving a dirty green Land Rover crowded with dogs. Not even looking back on London helped Eleanor any more. The past had sunk beyond reach, overlaid by the incomprehensible disappointments of the present. Like her mother still not driving, not even to take or fetch them from school. Like the horrible blue walls of her new bedroom; a blue she had chosen, but which, under the slap-slap of her father’s paintbrush, had somehow transformed itself from the milky beauty in the tin into a dingy murk. It felt like failure to have got the colour so wrong, too stupid a failure to admit to. She had to console herself by whispering her sorrows to Mottie instead, having promoted the bear from the bottom of the bed and into her arms to make up for the emptiness of the space that had once contained her little sister.
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