by Janet Davey
‘Is everything all right?’ I ask Ross.
‘Is everything all right?’ he repeats in a speeded-up voice like a chipmunk.
‘Well, is something wrong?’
‘Nuh-hah.’
‘What does that mean?’
Ross half in, half out of his room, jiggles the door to and fro while I talk so that for part of the time he disappears and I am speaking to chipped paint on wood. The light from inside comes and goes and this adds to the strange visual effect. I endure these background distractions without comment though I often feel like Trilby to the boys’ Svengali and perform the role of mother in an amnesiac trance.
‘Have you seen Jude? Are you going to Crews Hill?’
‘Nuh-hah.’
‘So you’re not seeing her this weekend?’
‘Nuh-hah.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘She’s got coursework.’
‘And have you not got coursework? I haven’t noticed you doing any.’
I spend too much time on the landings, talking at or through doors. This is one reason why nothing gets done in the house. Twenty years ago, I painted the walls teal, mustard and plum. The surfaces are scarred from fights and indoor ball games. The colours have faded. Randal and I bought the walnut-veneered table at an antiques fair at Hatfield and later a red leatherette, stubby-legged sofa. After that we did not make much effort with the thirties look. I uncovered a parquet floor in the hall and passage when I took up the previous owners’ carpet and then we inflicted damage on it in various ways. Although they were told not to, the boys used to race their toy cars down the stairs and, on different occasions, I dropped a hammer, a bottle of wine and a cast-iron pan of beef stew.
About a year before he left, Randal began to speak of plans for the house. A side-return extension. Replacement windows. They were little cameos of a distant moneyed future, made possible by the new job. He dropped them into the conversation. On one occasion, he mentioned adaptations to the house post-retirement – whether it would be possible to fit a stairlift when the stairs were so narrow. We were in the middle of dealing with a starling that had fallen down the living-room chimney. I love this house, he said. I don’t want to leave it. What are you talking about? I said. We’re years off retirement. Let’s just get this poor bird out of the hall. The flapping is intolerable. The front door was open and the back door but the bird kept flying up, up and then down again, with a strong, direct flight. Its wingspan widened in the confined space. I could not bear the mad flying. I thought it would never end and that the half-crazed creature would carry on long into the evening; a perverted, one-bird version of the aeronautic starling displays that form ever-changing shapes and darken the sky.
Frances Bennet is forty-six. She is having or has had an affair with Dr Fred Grabowski. I see her, I do not know why, with her hair hidden under a towel arranged like a turban. I subtract from Jude’s face those elements that belong to Dirk Neerhoff and am left with the nose and the cheekbones.
28
ONE FRIDAY, JUDE is back. She comes down for supper in a white blouse, black skirt and cardigan. Her hair is brushed and shiny. I never see her in her school uniform. She looks young. Though the clothes are the regulation monochrome, and abide by the sixth-form dress code, I can see that they are not the same as the other girls’. The shirt is made of stretchy fabric and Jude does up the buttons. This emphasises her breasts. The skirt is pleated. She displays a lot of leg, choosing to wear ankle socks in winter. She is exotic. She has not conformed.
‘School attire. What’s going on?’ I say.
‘Oh, I couldn’t be bothered to go home and change.’
She appears in the kitchen the next morning, identically dressed. I put down the book I am reading, tighten the belt of the old towelling dressing gown with loops hanging off it and sit up straight. It is seven-thirty in the morning.
‘Saturday, isn’t it?’ I say.
‘Detention.’ Jude takes two bowls out of the cupboard and pours cornflakes into them, then milk to the brim of each bowl.
‘Aren’t you too old for that?’ I get up to put the kettle on again.
She is preoccupied and does not respond. She sits down on a chair with her back to me.
‘Jude?’
‘They’ve added consolidation to the Performance framework. It’s the new commitment policy. It runs all the way through the academy like a golden thread.’
‘Their words, obviously?’
‘What’s she on about? Stop talking. We’re in a rush.’ Ross comes in, also in school uniform, shirt buttons undone, tie hanging loose round his neck. He pushes past me.
I notice a charred patch of tomatoey stuff on the stove. The seeds have turned into burnt ants. I begin to scrub at them with a cloth. ‘Which part of the golden thread have you severed? Sit down, Ross.’ I hand him a spoon.
‘We haven’t done anything wrong,’ Jude says. ‘It’s work catch-up. We’ve got behind.’
‘In English?’
‘Yes, but Mr Goode organised it.’
‘A penile collection.’ Ross shovels cereal into his mouth. ‘They have them at Oxford colleges.’
‘Penal, surely?’ I say. ‘Does Mr Goode claim to have gone to Balliol?’
Ross has raised his head and is looking at Jude with a gaze that would disturb an animal. Then he catches me watching. ‘For God’s sake. Are you so ignorant?’ he snaps.
‘What time are you supposed to be there?’ I say.
‘Jude.’ Ross gestures towards the door.
She stands up.
‘See you later,’ I say as she follows Ross out of the kitchen.
I hear the front door bang shut. I go upstairs and into the bathroom, carrying a mug of tea. The air is as wet and hot as a tropical greenhouse. It takes me a few seconds to register ‘FUCK GOODE’, written in the steam that has formed on the mirror. The words have already begun to drip so that the letters resemble the piratical writing of a message traced in blood.
I take off my dressing gown and hang it on the hook on the back of the door. I appear as a smudged red-and-grey blur in my winter pyjamas, more a colour palette than a person, with chinks of realism in the cleared spaces of lettering. I have never seen Jude’s handwriting. It could be hers. The D resembles Ewan’s D, a shallow backward C with a line that fails to meet the sides of the curve. Ross’s is different, all joined up. They have carved out distinctive styles in the repeated writing of Doig. I swish away the sudsy mound over the shower drain, pick up the towels that lie in a heap on the floor and open the window. The steam clears in the draught.
29
ON MY FIRST inspection of the archive in Cheshire, I fantasised about a cavern with the documents shelved between salt pillars, since Winsford Rock Salt Mine used the ‘room and pillar’ method of mining that involved leaving supports to hold up the roof before the ‘room’ was relinquished and the miners moved on to a new area. In reality, the underground facility lacks romance. The store in the worked-out part of the mine houses not only the London Transport archive but also confidential government files, hospital patient records, business gen from private companies and part of the Bodleian Library. It has the benefit of naturally constant levels of humidity and temperature but is otherwise mundane, with walls, floors and ceilings no different from any other warehouse space. Boxes are stacked on high metal shelves and conform to British Standards. Although the mine was shut down in the late nineteenth century because of over-capacity in the salt industry, it reopened in the 1920s and is still operational. It stretches five kilometres east to west, and three kilometres north to south, and supplies rock salt to de-ice the roads of Britain in winter.
Storage is costly and I am gradually transferring data onto digital files. For the moment, tangible, musty-smelling proof of the past, including the heavy, bound staff registers that date back to 1863, remains in hard copy. So much has gone missing – from the ancient library of Alexandria to yesterday’s travelcard dropped on the pavement; lo
st, discarded, burnt, blown up. The ordered shelving gives me pleasure.
I make the trip in a day. A two-hour train journey each way with a change at Crewe followed by a cab ride to and from the station out of town, along the River Weaver. Gradually, as the train travels further from London, the level of light rises and, looking out into the wash of grey, I feel as though I have taken a drug that allows me to see the unexceptional nature of the English landscape.
In the quiet zone, noise is at a minimum. Passengers tap on their electronic equipment in silent mode. From time to time, announcements over the intercom break in. I take out a book and when the train comes to a halt at a set of signals I look up. A tractor is moving slowly across a field.
There is no trolley service on the return journey so I go to the bar to buy a cup of tea. The train is packed with people visiting London or returning there for the weekend. While I wait in the queue, I check my phone and find a voice message from my father and a text from Ginny Lu. Both ask me to call them. I start with William. He is flustered. He says he won’t be coming for lunch on Sunday. He apologises for giving such short notice and hopes I haven’t already bought the food. The explanation he gives is that he is going to the National Army Museum to see ‘a small exhibition on the Battle of Inkerman’. He clears his throat and adds, ‘With Jane.’ After the unenthusiastic, Oh, OK, with which I respond, he goes on to say that an ancestor of Jane’s, of the 47th Regiment, distinguished himself on that occasion. I try to cut him short, fearing that what Ginny has to say involves Ross, but my father ploughs on, telling me of various outings that he and Jane have been on together. I interrupt him again. He gets the wrong end of the stick and seems to think I am on my way to a school do.
‘Strange, all this fraternising with teachers that goes on these days,’ he says. ‘Father and I once bumped into the chemistry teacher at a rugby match at Twickenham. I was appalled to see the man out of context without his white coat on. It would not be a problem for me now. He’d say, “Hello William,” and I’d think, Who the hell are you?’
By the time I get him off the phone I am too close to the front of the queue to call Ginny. The man immediately ahead delves repeatedly in his trouser pocket for change to pay for two cans of extra-strong lager and a ham sandwich tight wrapped in cling film.
The woman who is serving glances at the money laid out on the counter. ‘Another five p.’ She pats her hair.
The man fishes again and the tiny coin that is stuck to his hand dislodges itself and rolls to the floor.
‘Leave it. I’ll look for it later,’ the woman says.
He starts to bend down. ‘Where’s the blighter gone?’
‘Leave it.’
He puffs as he straightens up, his face as dark and mottled as corned beef. He picks up the small paper carrier bag and goes over to the automatic doors.
‘He can’t see the button,’ the woman says to me. ‘It’s got a bleeding light on. What can I get you, love? Press the button,’ she calls out. ‘Tea? Two pound fifty, darling. He needs his mother. There’s plenty like him, I tell you. Help yourself to milk and sugar.’
The catering facility in Coach H is a forlorn place, part of the train but with the atmosphere of an outpost, somewhere rancid and enclosed, like a police cell. On the floor, older, ineradicable stains show through patches of newly spilt liquids. There is no window. Light bites and snacks on the racks might be all that is left in the world and constitute a last meal for a survivor who still has an appetite. I balance the poly-foam cup on one of the high perching tables, prise off the lid and add milk from the miniature carton. I have nowhere to put the floating teabag, though a stirring stick is provided. I jam the lid back on and call Ginny.
‘Oh, Lorna.’
I grip the phone.
‘Can I talk to you in confidence?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Ross isn’t with you?’
‘No, I’m on a train. Where is he? Is he all right?’
‘Ross? Lorna, this is about Alan Child.’
Ginny’s voice is quiet and precise. I miss some of what she says because a group of football supporters piles in through the automatic doors. Through barked-out chants and hollering, I get the gist of what she is saying.
30
I WALK BACK through the swaying carriages, pressing buttons to allow my passage from one to the next. Differing levels of clamour cross my path. Each section produces its own blend of voices and bleeping. The train speeds along, seemingly lengthening as it goes, stretching to a distant northern county. I put in the miles. I pass luggage and passengers, more luggage, more passengers, and enter the quiet coach; its muffled hush hits me like a wall, as the doors sigh behind me. I return to my seat. Someone is sitting opposite, a young woman with hair dyed silvery grey. She is knitting.
Booking seats on a train is an unremarkable process – I did it myself – but the woman’s appearance in my absence startles me. Wearing black, fashionably geeky spectacles and constantly moving her fingers over yarn and needles, she has replaced the white booking ticket on which was written ‘Birmingham New Street/ London’. I have no recollection of the train having stopped while I stood in Coach H. No jolts, no sensation of rest. I failed to hear the announcements.
I remove the lid from the cup. The tea is mahogany coloured with creamy flecks on the surface where the milk has separated. I take a tissue from my bag, pull out the teabag by a corner, since I have mislaid the stick, and place it on the tissue. My hand is shaking. Immediately, a stain begins to spread and I hastily fold the tissue into a small disgusting parcel and dab at the table with it, meanwhile holding the cup with my other hand to stop it from spilling. The young woman continues to knit, breaking her rhythm only to yank more wool from the ball in her lap. My eyes are drawn to the soft yarn. It is a beautiful pebble-grey colour and so unspoiled that I can smell its newness. I gulp the tea down and, as soon as I have finished, drop the tissue parcel, by now soaked through, into the cup and replace the lid. I close my eyes to shut out the lighted carriage and the rushing dark.
The house smells of fried chicken. There are used cartons on the kitchen table, also my note to Ross about buying a takeaway. The money I left has gone. I hear voices upstairs and, every now and then, footsteps that cross the room. Jude is here. I clear away the rubbish, put forks and glasses in the dishwasher and, though it is frosty outside, I open the back door and stand for a few moments, wrapped in my coat and hugging my arms. No school until Monday. The head, who is not a reflective man, will have time to reflect. He can take advice on the best way to handle the situation. The important thing, from his point of view, is to control information.
Ginny asked me to uphold confidentiality. Naturally, I agreed. Our children should be in the same position as all the other students. There is a procedure to follow. A variety of groups must be informed in the right order: the governing body, the trustees, senior management, teaching staff, support staff, students in general, students in particular – those taught by Mr Child, or in his tutor group – parents. Ginny mentioned a Crisis Prevention Response Plan and I did not ask whether such a thing already existed or would be drawn up hastily on the back of an envelope over the weekend. It was not of great importance either way. Sometimes a crisis produces clearer thinking than a committee at ease.
I shut the door and take off my coat. I should eat, but the lingering smell in the kitchen nauseates me and combines with a memory of the train bar’s beery stench. I go back through the thread of emails that followed the meeting at the Luptons’ house. The first lot deals with dates; endless rescheduling as Deborah tries to fix up a meeting. She describes her assaults on the systems of Lloyd-Barron Academy, the passive aggression of Amrita, the head’s secretary, the strategic diary clashes and last-minute cancellations. Other members of the parents’ group responded. I took no part. Even when there was something concrete to discuss – an action plan to improve Mr Child’s teaching – I let the comments pass me by as though they were poster
ads next to an escalator.
How frustrating. Predictable but then I’m cynical. Surprise, Surprise. A CLASH? Do none of them keep a diary?? We don’t want this thing to drag on. Fingers Xed sonny boy shows up. What are the chances? My guesstimate no better than 50/50. Don’t forget to mention negativity. Too vague, Simon. Stick to competence specifics. Still on Silas Marner? (YAWN) How long is it? Something more upbeat next time please. Good luck Deborah Good luck Deborah Good luck Debs. Good evening one and all. The deed is done. This is the action plan. We covered the following bullet points, 1–8. Looks good to me. V. clear. Well done, Deborah. Excellent result. Move speedily on to Stage 2 if he doesn’t deliver. Great idea to have after-school coaching. Holidays too?? Keep the pressure on. Thanks Deborah Thank you Thankyou.
I feel unsteady, as if still in motion.
31
THE NEXT MORNING I wake at four-thirty on the dot. I lie in bed for the first hour, then can stand immobility no longer and get up. Downstairs, in the kitchen, I make tea, read a book and from time to time glance through the window at the quiet garden and the sky above the rooftops to see if it is getting light. For warmth I switch on the oven and leave the door open. The little blue flames flicker and a smell, part gassy, part reheated baked food, drifts out. I feel disconnected from the rest of the house. The sleepers on the floors above are nothing to do with me. Jude, Ross, Ewan. It is as if I and they exist in different dimensions. The central heating comes on. I switch the oven off and go upstairs to have a bath and get dressed. I listen to the radio but I cannot settle.
Later, I drive to the supermarket to stock up for the week. Up and down the aisles I field the trolley. Vegetables. Fruit. Half a leg of lamb for Sunday lunch. Colleague announcement: Please will … Packs of minced beef. Bread. I walk past pyramid displays of Easter eggs. Sorry, could I just … Cheese. Ham. Milk. Yoghurt. In it all goes. Excuse me. Pasta. Breakfast cereal. Excuse me, are you in the queue? Beep. Beep. Please wait for assistance. I’ve no idea why … OK, thanks. The bill is enormous. Feed us until next Saturday.
