by Jane Rogers
“Somewhere else?”
“Yes. Move away. Nothing will be any different while we stay here. I can – I can leave Carolyn – but not while she’s within reach. I want us to move away.”
The water kept moving and shimmering until she could no longer tell which was the surface and which the waves, and the whole reservoir seemed to be seething and moving horribly like a living thing, crawling with insects – ants, or maggots. Something fell into place in Caro’s head.
“You were with her on Thursday night.”
“Yes.” He paused. “It isn’t fair – fair to her, Caro, I – she’s right. It’s not fair.”
“No.”
She did not let herself follow up the thread of what he had said, about not leaving Carolyn while she was in reach, because to be upset would be irrelevant. Mechanically, as if she had been set a puzzle to do, she began to make a list of the items that would make the scales (as she already knew) weigh down against what he said –“moveaway”. It was simple. Clare. Her friends. The Red House. Work – the park.
“We can get other jobs,” he said. “Neither of us will find it difficult.”
But in the autumn she would go round nurseries to choose shrubs and perennials for the blind garden, to fill it with scents and leaves that were lovely to the touch. Children would climb on the climbing frame and tower, and throw bread to ducks on the lake. The place would take shape and grow.
“No.”
“You care more about – all that – than –”
“Than you? I suppose so.” She could feel him staring at her.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Well it’s true. You’re not the only thing in my life, Alan.” There was a silence. “And you wouldn’t want to know me if you were.”
After a short while he laughed bitterly. “I – I’ve left my wife – and kids – completely screwed up my life – and you . . . don’t want to give an inch.”
“That’s right,” she said, making her voice light and cold. If that was what he thought; if that was what it all came down to. . . . She stopped, turning to face him, but he carried on walking, ignoring her.
“Alan!”
He stood still, a few yards ahead of her, not looking at her.
“You don’t know what you want!” she shouted. “You need a – a mother, not me.”
He met her eyes briefly, expressionlessly, then turned and walked on.
Caro sat on the grass by the side of the path and watched him till he went out of sight, following the curving edge of the reservoir. Then she got up and headed back for the hotel. She felt hollow and dull, in her belly and her head, as if she had a hangover. She wanted to explain to him – she could have explained – but there was no point. She gathered her things from the room quickly, and ran downstairs to the bar. There were no buses back towards the city on a Sunday, the publican told her, looking at her curiously. She couldn’t think of anything to say, and asked instead for a drink. How would she get home? At last she checked through her purse for change, and telephoned the Red House. Clare answered.
“Clare? Will – will you pick me up? I’m out at Chapelmoor, on the main road. I’ll – I’ll start walking to meet you.”
It was not until they were nearly home that she began to panic badly about what he might do.
Chapter 22
Over that summer Carolyn’s ordered existence collapsed into a chaos, of which very little was memorable afterwards. The period of chaos was ended, with the neatness of a full stop, by Alan hitting her. The night that he hit her provided a punctuation point not only to that summer, but to the first eleven years of their relationship. After it, things were different.
When she found out about the woman, there was a long time which happened in bursts of conflicting emotions, rather than days, nights, or weeks. She convinced herself that Alan was unfaithful (the most obvious fact, for some reason, was the hardest to swallow), that he deserved to be hated, that she would be calm and collected for the children’s sakes. She imagined ways of putting everything right, scoured her memory for things that had gone wrong, blamed herself, wept uncontrollably and wished she was dead. She wished he was dead. She wished the woman was dead. She wished he would go for good. She wished above all that he would come back. And every time she saw him he said something different. Twice he convinced her that he wouldn’t see the woman again, and life would go back to normal. They both cried, and made love, and she knew he meant it. Then he stayed out the following night. At other times he came in late, drunk, either sentimental or foul-tempered, and banged about the house until he managed to wake one of the children. On several occasions he told her he was moving out. She didn’t believe him, not only because of the times when he told her he wasn’t, but also because he never took any of his clothes or belongings. When she heard him running upstairs to their room – his room – early in the morning, to change his clothes, she was sickened by it. But she found herself clinging to the fact that he came back, that he was leaving this pretext for coming back, as a kind of hope.
Inevitably, it was the children that determined her behaviour. She must get up, make meals, keep the household running, smile and reply to their questions. She could do it, just about, if he kept away. Each time he returned, it fell apart again.
To destroy the tenacious hope in herself, and to make him go – to make it end, so that something, even if it was worse, could begin – she finally packed his suitcase. When it was full she dragged it into the hall and put his drawing-board on top of it. Then she went around the house gathering those of his belongings that she could carry: camera, binoculars, walking boots, the framed prints and drawings from his study, his big architecture books, his alarm clock, his daft hat with a feather in it. Most of them were Christmas and birthday presents from herself. She began to sort through his records. She worked mechanically, as if she were simply tidying up. It’s no good, she kept telling herself, it’s no good.
Then what she had dreaded most happened; before she had finished, he came back. She had bolted the front door. She heard him turning and twisting his key furiously in the lock, and ran to open the door before he started banging and woke the children.
“Why’s it locked?”
“I – why not? You didn’t – you told me you’d moved out. I’ve got every right to lock the door.”
He pushed past her into the hall, then stopped, taking in the pathetic heap of possessions. “What’s that?”
“I – I’ve packed your things. You said you’d moved out. You – You’ve got to take your things.”
“My things?” His voice was faint with disbelief. He walked slowly towards the piled suitcase, and Carolyn realized with a flash of terror that she had been right to fear his reaction.
“Alan –” she ran after him, clutching at his arm “– I’m not – it’s not –”
He shook her off like an insect. “Fuck off.” He stared down at the refugee pile for a moment, then turned to her, laughing bitterly. “So that’s me – tidied up and out of the fucking way. That’s me –” He kicked the side of the suitcase. “You bitch – you fucking bitch – you can’t wait to get rid of me, can you? You – you –” He shook his head.
“That’s not fair – it’s not. You’re the one who wants to go. You’re the one who – who –” She was trying desperately not to cry.
“Stop snivelling.” He spoke with such contemptuous hatred that she was silenced. “I’ll go – don’t worry – I’ll fucking go. There’s not much bloody point in staying here is there?” He stopped, staring at his things as if he had forgotten something.
Carolyn held her breath, so that he would stop – go away – go out of the room –
“Not much, is it?” he said suddenly. “Not much to show for ten years of domestic bliss. You get the house – do you? And the furniture? This is a fair division, you reckon?”
She had not dreamt of dividing things up. Suddenly she foresaw all the wretched detail of divorce, the haggling over
cutlery and school holidays. “I didn’t – I never thought of dividing –”
“What the fuck did you think, you bloody neat little housewife?”
“I – I – just so you – can go and not – keep coming back for your clothes – in the morning –” She was weeping openly.
“Stop that fucking noise!” He grabbed a picture from the pile and waved it at her. “Do you think I care? D’you think I care about the fucking stupid mindless things?” He hurled the picture at the stair wall. It smashed, and fragments of glass shot across the hall.
“Alan – stop – the children! You’ll wake –”
“The fucking children!” he screamed in her face, and pushed her away from him with all his force.
She fell back against the front door, catching the back of her head on the letter box. She felt a sharp pain on her head, then very hot, then cold and sick. She let herself slump down on her side. It was too much effort to sit up.
Something stopped then, as if the blow had finally knocked some sense into her head, knocked something straight so that she could see him for what he was. She watched from a distance his display of remorse and concern, as he tried to help her to the sofa, nearly slipping himself on a piece of broken glass. He dabbed at her head with a soaking wet towel, and she felt the separate cold trickles of water running down her neck and back, then stopping and being absorbed into a warmer dampness by the waistband of her skirt. She touched at the hurt herself. It was sticky. She must go upstairs and use two mirrors, to see if it needed stitches. The sound of his voice ran on – she couldn’t look at him, and brushed away his arm unsteadily, making her way out of the room, holding on to the back of the sofa, and then the door-sills. Pulling herself up on the banister, she went upstairs one at a time. She could feel him behind her, watching. It was hard to see because of the wet hair, but the cut did not seem big. She went to her room and lay carefully on her side on the bed.
At dawn she washed her face in the bathroom. It was a dull pain, it would get better. She was thankful the cut was in her hair where the children would not see. She must clear up the glass before they woke. She went downstairs quietly, and was glad to see that he had gone.
That day, Friday, was calm, and so was the weekend. He did not come back. And the clear vision which the blow had given her did not waver. She did not have to be afraid of him, or try to please him again. He knew no more than a child what he should value. After he had hurt her he had cried and babbled. She was embarrassed for him. Her vision of him, the basis of the way she knew him, was changed. He did not know more than her. He did not know what he wanted or what was right, and so he was blundering about breaking and destroying everything, and blubbering like a baby when he saw the damage he’d done. He was pitiful.
She knew he would be back; and it seemed sickeningly appropriate, as it turned out, that he could not even make it back on his own two feet, but had to be handed back like a baby – “Now she’s finished with him,” she thought bitterly. The phone rang on Sunday evening and a woman who introduced herself as Clare something said that she had been asked to call to tell Carolyn that her husband was at a certain pub, and might need help to get home.
Carolyn received the news in silence.
“Mrs Blake? Mrs Blake?” The voice at the other end was kindly and anxious, with a slight American accent. “Please listen to me. I know you must feel badly – hurt – by what’s happened. But I – if it’s any help – I don’t think they’ll see each other – any more. It was Caro who asked me to call you. I’m sorry.”
There was another silence.
“Thankyou,” said Carolyn automatically. She took the address of the hotel. It was a long way out of town, she would have to get a taxi.
And so she fetched him home, as if he were an incapable child, accepting from a cold distance the fussy help of the publican and his wife. She did not question him about what had happened, or why. She did not care about it. She simply looked after him, with automatic compassion, as she would have done any sick creature placed in her charge.
Chapter 23
On Tuesday of the week after she had broken with Alan, Caro left work early. She had looked up Kevin Jackson’s address in the Canal Project file. He lived very near to the south gate of the park; only a few streets away from the Red House, in fact.
The curtains were drawn across the front window, and from the doorstep she could hear the sound of a television. Kevin himself opened the door. When he saw it was her he half shut it again, as if she might try to force her way in. She was taken aback by the sullen hostility in his face.
“What d’you want?”
“I – I’ve come to see you. I want to have a talk with you, Kevin.”
“What about?”
“About the park.”
“I’ve talked to Jim – I’ve talked to the pigs – I’ve talked to that sodding Bellamy – I don’t want to talk about the fucking park any more.”
“I’m not – I haven’t come to – I wanted to see if I could be any use.”
He didn’t speak, leaning out aggressively with his foot against the door. She stood still, not knowing what else to say. After a minute he stepped back, and jerked the door wider open with an angry movement. He walked ahead of her through the passage to the kitchen at the back of the house.
“Me Dad’s watching telly.” He leant against the sink, leaving her standing awkwardly in the doorway.
“I’m sorry,” she said lamely. “I haven’t come to get at you, Kevin – honestly. And I haven’t – I don’t know what you’ve said to anyone else. I haven’t even seen Jim.”
There was a silence.
“I’m sorry,” she said again. “I know it must be – boring, going over it all again. But I really would like to know what happened. I might be able to help.”
He pulled a face, and gave an exaggerated sigh. She fumbled after the friendly ease that had existed between them when they’d worked together; when he’d done his mountaineering act down the side of the lock, and cracked dreadful jokes while they all sheltered in the back of the van, waiting for a shower to pass.
“Have you seen any of the others?” He shook his head. She forced herself to smile. “Done any mountaineering lately?”
He said, “Huh,” under his breath, disgustedly, and turned to look out of the small window over the sink.
“Look Kevin – I – I know you didn’t light that fire. I want to know what you did do and what you saw. I’m not trying to catch you out. Stop acting like a kid.”
He gave another exaggerated sigh, and turned back to her, folding his arms resignedly. She saw that he was going to talk, and pulled out one of the chairs from the table and sat down.
“I went down to the fence about eleven-thirty – after closing time. I wanted some soil – right? So I nipped over the fence, sprinted down to the stores, and filled a bin-liner. I scraped it in with my hands, right, so that’s why they were black.” He held them up, as if they were still black, for evidence. “When it was full it was fucking heavy, and I went back as quiet as I could. I didn’t hear anything or see anything. I wouldn’t have noticed if they’d been letting off fucking fireworks. I was concentrating on getting out and not rupturing myself and not ripping the fucking bin-liner. I was pushing it under the fence –”
“Under the fence?” She was surprised.
“Yeah. You don’t think I could chuck it over, do you? – when a cop car comes zooming out of nowhere and stops dead in front of me. And that’s it.”
“Why did you want the soil?”
He stared at her, pressing his lips together, then shrugged.
“I dunno. For a dare. Someone bet me I couldn’t.”
“Who?”
“I dunno. I’ve forgotten.”
“Is that what you told the police?”
“Yeah. Why not? It’s the truth.” His voice was full of aggression again.
Caro pulled a face. “I wouldn’t believe it. I mean, I don’t believe it.”
<
br /> “Well you know what you can do,” he said, and turned round to the window again.
“Kevin – if someone did bet you, you wouldn’t forget who it was. It doesn’t make sense.” She watched his narrow back. His shoulders were hunched against her. After a minute he let them drop, and stood up straight.
“All right,” he said flatly. He went to the back door, opened it, and stepped out into the yard. Caro followed him to the doorway. The yard was dark and narrow, flanked by the wall of the Jacksons’ outdoor toilet and coal hole on the left, and the back wall of next door’s toilet and coal hole on the right. Opposite the kitchen door was the yard door, in a high wall, and a dented dustbin. Along the right hand wall were ranged an old-fashioned bathtub, on curling iron feet, and two polythene-lined orange boxes. The orange boxes were full of black soil, and contained rows of newly planted lettuce seedlings. The bath had a thin layer of soil in the bottom of it. Caro glanced at Kevin.
“I got that lot the night before,” he said. “I needed some more for the bath, right?”
“Why didn’t you tell them?”
He laughed as if she was stupid.
“Tell them I nicked two lots, and make it twice as bad for myself? One of the stupid sods came out here for a piss and never even noticed it!” He laughed again, genuinely amused, and led the way into the kitchen. Caro glanced back at the orange boxes. They looked like boats with their cargo of soil and brave little sails of green leaves.
“Did you grow the lettuce yourself?”
“Yeah, from seed. I grew them in my bedroom in egg boxes. Real Blue Peter stuff! I’ve got some tomatoes for the bath – I grew them too.”
“That’s good,” she said. “I can – I can bring you some good soil. I’ve got a garden full of it.”
“OK. Thanks.”
“But – I think you should tell the police.”
“Why the fuck should I tell them?”
She was still unnerved by the speed at which he switched from amiability to aggression. “Because it gives you a motive for being there – it sounds true – instead of sounding as if you’re covering something up.”
