Long before that, after the key first turned, she had deafened herself with her own screaming. Hitting the door, pounding the lock and screaming for Jeanetta. Put her with me, David, please, please, please, until the voice had trailed into a dry shout, coughing the way the child had coughed, the futility of such racket painfully obvious. Something returned; a remnant of the realism which had got her out of the kitchen window to escape, shoved back down into the recesses of logical thought because she could no longer afford logical conclusions. Such as the fact that no one could hear unless they were David, who could sleep through a storm and did not wish to respond. Exhaustion won, so she slept herself in a crazed kind of way, dozing into nightmares as the shadows of the moon through the high window danced in the corners and grew enormous. They were static, but moved when she watched them, black figures advancing until she whimpered against the wall.
He had been so cunning, doing this. David knew her weakness, knew very well her horrors, the imprisonments and escapes of the past. Katherine counted on her fingers all the times she had ever been locked away. That time with Mary, when they were found in the coal hole and given flannel pyjamas: then another time with foster parents, not in the dark, a benign punishment for bad behaviour. Then being told to remain quiet in a room while the favourite foster parent died, or being shut in a room to defray the amorous attentions of the last borrowed daddy of them all, before return to the hostel with the rigid curfew from which Mary had plucked her, still wilful, impetuous, high-spirited, into the liberal regime of Mary’s bossiness. There was one corollary in all of these imprisonments which loomed largest now. If she was good, without protest, darkness was always followed by light, hugs, apologies, attention, sometimes treats. They were always sorry when they shut you up; so much so there had been a part of her which even grew to like it, see in each episode an anticipation of what would follow. They would expect to see her helpless, cherish her like a baby doll, every time. Being let out was like having a birthday, all over again.
Some dim resentment stirred in the blackness of the attic room. There had been no treats, no being allowed to be a child like that ever since she had given birth to one. It wasn’t fair, it was all too much, what about me, me, me?
Somebody hug me, please: I can’t cope. Like the aftermath of all those other times, not at his hand. David would be sorry for locking her away. And when he was sorry, he was nice. When he was sorry, she became as precious as a tiny little child. She was loved when he was sorry and she had been good, treated like the fragile crystal they displayed with their food, shining and admirable, touched gently.
Then the shadows touched her skin: she could feel tendrils of darkness stroking her cheek, wrapping themselves around her throat, creeping between her legs, extensions of familiar nightmares, but if she screamed, she would stay here for ever. Or as the last alternative, she could be put outside in the dark, where the shadows would become hands, tearing her apart with sharp nails, forcing her to run and run and run. Even in the depths of nightmare, cringing towards the window, she could perceive at least the solidity of the wall behind which shadows could not creep, while the fate beyond the door of the house might be worse. Better in here than out, far better. There was logic in this punishment, not quite the worst she had known since there was still a surface to clutch as darkness paled into light. She remembered what silent obedience brought: embraces, sweeties, kisses, protection. All the bravery of the evening before, the logic, the realism, died. Katherine simply waited and endured, forgetting everything.
Dawn had been short-lived relief as time sped forward, the comfort of light short-lived as the sun rose and eleven o’clock heat raised the room to an oven, so warm she could not have shouted without water. Then, in the middle of her fit of strangled coughing, he had come back, standing clean and polished in the doorway, holding a jug of water. For the liquid, she would have crawled, but she stayed as she was, knees clutched to chest, her fingers twisting her hair with little movements. He put the jug by the door, finger on his lips.
‘You’ve been very naughty. You’ve got to be good. For a little while.’ There was a promise in that, the beginnings in him of the guilt for which she watched and hoped, made herself smaller in the belief he would notice. Be good, sweet child, and let who will be clever. So she was good. Monstrously good. Picking up the tiny particles of dust and fluff which dwelt on the floor, rolling the fluff into balls and making a neat, housewifely pile of miniature rubbish. Busy until she heard them in the studio below. Shocked into stillness by Monica’s voice, the loud, braying laugh cutting a line through her forehead, the noise of it absorbed through her eyes and skin. Katherine opened her own mouth to shout, remembered, placed one finger over her teeth and bit her knuckle. Don’t say a word: don’t speak: be good, and something nice will happen. Familiar enough sounds from him: the same noises he had made so lately without a wall between them, and from the woman, a crescendo of moaning, but Katherine had the blanket over her head and stuck into her ears as she began, stealthily, to dismember her watch. The bracelet was gold. In the daylight hours left, using her teeth, she had prised apart seven of the links. She added them to the little pile of fluff. As long as he came back.
The key turned in the lock and he was framed in the electric light from the hallway, hurrying towards her, pulling her upright and wrapping his arms around her. ‘Darling, darling, darling . . . I’m sorry. All right now, not your fault, was it?’
She stood limp with her arms by her sides as he embraced, pressing the back of her head into the shoulder which was soft and warm. A river of perspiration ran down into the valley of her bosom, stuck to the nightdress which was grubby from the floor. She had thought that another night would have made her die, but she had waited for this, had known he would be like this. The heat of her body ended in arms icy cold, the rich cashmere of his sweater soothing. He adjusted her arms so they rested round his waist and she left them there, fingers touching lifelessly. Comfort was comfort, nothing registered but the end of the nightmare, the reward.
Downstairs, from the studio, there was a tinkling of music from the radio.
‘You must be hungry,’ he said with infinite gentleness, ‘poor little thing. A bath first. Then bed. I’ll bring you up some supper. Something simple. Glass of wine. You’d like that.’ She shuddered violently in the return of memory, only semi-free from the mesmerizing darkness, dug her fingers into his haunches, spoke the first words. ‘Jeanetta. Netta . . . What have you done?’
‘Shhh, shhh. Don’t worry. All over now.’
‘What have you done?’ The repetition was dry, a voice which had to ask but did not really want to know. Knowing would ruin the treat.
‘Taken her to stay with Sophie. She wanted to go. Sophie wanted to have her. Give us a break. Naughty girl, trying to get out. Leading you astray. It’s all her fault, you know that, don’t you? She’s always doing that, making you naughty. No good for the two of us, is she? Always been her, spoils things. Should have been a boy.’ He stroked the back of her hair, feeling the tangles made by hours of twisting. ‘Anyway, she’s fine, absolutely fine. They’ll be eating biscuits. Sort of holiday. Just you and I, darling. I’ll look after you.’
‘Not my fault,’ she repeated in a babyish voice. Disinterest in Jeremy was evident, as complete as his in her. Rippling waves of physical relief moved from her feet to her head and she slumped against him, her fingers locking behind his back. She did not ask why this, why the other: she had been schooled for years not to ask why; it did not matter. What mattered was belief in safety, belief in him, flooding back like a tide, washing before it all the scum of incredulity.
‘Come downstairs, with me. Just for a minute. I want to show you something.’
‘What?’ Fresh fear gripped her lungs.
‘Something.’
The elegant stairs seemed to number a hundred steps: she held back, but he nudged her on with one arm round her and guiding her all the way down to the grand front door. Opened it,
simply stood there with her in the doorway, both of their feet on the step. The kitchen door was shut on her left and she could hear the comforting sound of the boiler humming in the background. She shivered in the nightdress and pushed her hair behind her ears.
‘Listen,’ he said softly, both of them facing the wide road, ‘you can go whenever you want. There it is, all yours. Go now, if you like. I’ll get you some shoes. And a coat.’
Over the road, a chestnut tree stirred into life, rustling and hissing in a warm breeze. The noise was sudden and fierce, announcing a storm. One street lamp shone level with the lowest branches of the tree, twigs smacking against the glass, and a single moth, drawn by the light from their own home, blundered into Katherine’s face so she covered her eyes. Apart from the lamp and two lights from the house opposite obscured by heavy curtains, the street was as empty as desert, the heatwave finished. Katherine regarded the view with unspeakable horror, a flood of panic hitting her as her bare feet scratched on the cold step. She leant back against her husband, felt his warmth, watched as he crushed the moth in one palm. Katherine clung to the other arm and they retreated indoors.
Sleep, after bath, after food. Sleep with her hair sweet and wet from water she wanted to drink. Curled like a foetus, safe. Sleep; as gorgeous as any hallucination. Fingering a swollen stomach, sleep. Jeanetta with her granny, sleeping both. She had been good and everything was going to be all right.
When John Mills failed to get his award, he began to cry. He knew the failure on the Saturday morning when nothing arrived in the post and a colleague from the NSPCC phoned in anticipation of sharing his own good news. If both had won recognition instead of only one of them, they would have joked and said how ridiculous was the whole idea: as if it mattered, such silly condescension, stick the thing in the lavatory. A certificate and a piece of silver sculpture from a posh shop, only fit to be pawned, but best placed all the same in the bathroom’s insulting obscurity where every visitor would be bound to see it. But it did matter. Nothing was any longer all right.
John found these days he cried often and with ease, quickly moved to tears by either affectionate gestures or frustration, but mostly by animals, real ones as well as creatures in pictures. He even considered changing his allegiance away from human beings entirely. The award, however silly, would have been a marker on the last years, made them look worthwhile although he doubted they were, as well as giving him some incentive either to carry on, or retire with laurels. So it mattered, desperately. Matilda found him with three of the kittens on his knee, stroking them one by one while they dug experimental claws into his thighs. He was talking, ostensibly to the animals, really to himself, but in any event the chat was exclusive.
Half of her wished this was madness while the rest of her recognized it was not. Nothing wrong but a man without company and capable of receiving none. Matilda was confused and the confusion floated on top of a cocktail of rage. There was this other man, extending on each of their emotional meetings the invitation of alternative life. A house in the suburbs, not only all paid, but entirely free of cats; even with all the fussiness attached, an attractive prospect. Bugger true love: she’d done all that, but as the delicious spectre of such an untried existence grew into sharper prospect, so did the ultimatums. Matilda had determined to abandon her own stinking ship, at some time to coincide with this bloody award: leaving John stronger, but instead of jubilation, she was here, encountering a husband talking to his cats. Their cats, almost their only common property, symbolizing everything she did not want.
She regarded John with all of herself sinking into despair, looked at the animals with loathing. One of them played with her feet and the impulse to kick it out of the window was almost irresistible.
‘Pussy, pussy, pussy: give daddy a kiss.’
The hidden obscenity might have been laughable if she had not overheard John’s telephone conversation with the half-known colleague, all that talk conducted in tones of forced jollity, quite different to the voice reserved for cats, a silly, childish voice. She looked at that pale face of sunny gentleness, big hands holding horrible kittens fast growing beyond the reach of a palm. Ignoring the vacancy of his expression, she centred on the animals. John removed them from his knees one by one without ever looking at her, his face alive with concern for the movement of all those flailing little legs. In one awful gulp of a conclusion she knew yet again that she could not leave him here. Not today, even if it was the last chance of several, similar days to this, with her tenure on the alternative weakening with every procrastination.
‘I’d better go to work,’ was all he said.
‘Don’t,’ she said, surprised by the sound of her own voice.
‘I must.’
‘No, you mustn’t.’
‘What else should I do?’ He did not seek comfort, never sought second opinions or even asked what she might have suggested. He had sprung a lifetime’s trap without any kind of permission. Frustration boiled inside her, a quiet, white heat. He never consulted, never even canvassed opinion, and the quiet adoration was not enough.
‘Go then,’ she said turning away. ‘Enjoy yourself.’
He placed all the kittens in the box where Kat slept, a larger box by now, with an even larger and cleaner version waiting to accommodate them tomorrow after the same early morning running up the walls which had woken them that morning. Kittens settled with satisfaction, sucking mother like little pigs although they had already eaten solid food. The cat litter in one enormous tray was fresh, but the scent of urine still lingered.
After the door shut on her departing husband, Matilda completed the business of dressing. Then walked up and down, her steps going quicker and quicker in the confinement of the small living room. She cried briefly, but reverted to the white anger, hatred for everything about her existence, especially the cowardice and the cats. When the frantic pacing stopped, the stillness of the whole place was unnerving. She pulled on a jacket since the night’s rain still chilled the upper storeys; found the new cardboard box and inverted it over the kittens’ bed. With them imprisoned and her handbag over one shoulder, she lifted the double box and went out of the door, closing it but ignoring the double lock. By the time she carried the large burden downstairs, juggling the load to open the door to the back yard, she was out of breath. She set the box down against the far wall. Next to the heap of old newspaper and the rug which formed the makeshift bed for Rotty the Rottweiler’s rump, whenever he arrived. Matilda intended no real harm, did not suspect animals of malice, but it seemed appropriate to put them all together. This would be the first place John would look: he would simply be shocked out of his lethargy and that was the full extent of his wife’s conscious desires.
‘Quick, quick, Eric. Quick. There’s someone outside.’
Eileen Harrison panted upstairs. Harrison panted down. ‘Quick,’ hissed Eileen. ‘Quick, while she’s out to the shops, for God’s sake.’
They pattered back towards basement level. ‘Sammy, you stay there,’ Mrs Harrison ordered. ‘Just for a minute, good girl.’ She closed the upstairs kitchen door and Samantha began to howl. ‘Shut up this minute you hear me?’ The crying stopped. ‘Eric, it’s that little beggar, I’m sure it is. Knocking at our back door. What’s the matter with him? I’m frightened, Eric, I am. What’s he want, must be mad, isn’t he? Mad as a hatter, coming back in here. What the hell . . .?’ They paused in the half-light of the stairwell. The innocence of Saturday morning going on all around them, patter-patter outside, did nothing to alter the tension of conspiracy. The tapping at the door went on. Both of them were panting.
‘What if he’s come back with that bloody necklace?’ Eileen whispered, grabbing Eric’s arm.
‘Don’t be so stupid. He wouldn’t do that. No one’d do that, you silly cow.’
‘What does he want then? He’s knocking at our kitchen window as if he was crazy. He’s gone nuts.’ Harrison thought for thirty seconds, the strain puckering his eyebrows.
&nb
sp; ‘Call the police. Quickest way to get rid of him before Mrs P comes home from the shops. We’ll all be for the high jump if anyone knows he’s been in here before. Specially me. Can’t take being lied to, can she? You know what she’s like. About things.’
‘He’ll tell them, and they’ll tell her, what’s the difference. Get rid of him. He can talk, can’t he?’
‘Maybe not. So what if he does? Never seen him before in my life, nor anyone else either. Call them buggers, go on. I’ll see what he wants. Go on. You can shut her up an’ all.’ Samantha’s wails were resumed.
The vagrant had overslept. Huddled in a red cloak, he had waited outside a semi-familiar house for most of the afternoon and then he started to explore, ending up in the park. Drugged by the sun and betrayed by the heat’s failure to recede with the light, he remained where he was, dead to the world. So soundly he slept under the bushes, the vigilant park-keepers did not find him. He slumbered without sound, helped by a quart of cider. Stiffly he sidled out of the park, back towards where his billet was, but he could not remember precisely where to go, sidestepped up and down the right-looking road, disorientated and confused. Everywhere looked the same and everywhere was so black he began to feel giddy. Even equipped with the red cloak he had found over a railing the morning before, he was not equipped for nights and besides, was afraid of the dark. He was superstitious, easily alarmed; and as his friend had noticed, beginning to go a little crazy.
The Playroom Page 26
