The Mark of Cain

by Lindsey Barraclough

  “She’s at your house …?”

  “Eating sausages,” says Roger. “We’ve saved some for you.”

  I wipe my eyes on the hanky.

  “I’ve brought some fuse wire,” says Mr. Jotman. “Do you know where the junction box is?”

  “Um — I think it’s near the back door, up on the wall.”

  “I’ll see if I can fix it. You go up with Roger and get clean school stuff for tomorrow, for you and Mimi, and your night things and toothbrushes …”

  “What?”

  “You’re staying with us tonight.”

  “But there’s no room —”

  “Oh, we can always make room. Go and get your stuff. I’ll see if I can sort out the electrics.”

  Our torchlights play on the worn wooden treads as Roger follows me up the stairs. The shadows of the carved banisters stretch themselves up the wall and bend across the ceiling above our heads — black parallel lines, moving as we move, like a living cage.

  I push open my bedroom door to get some clothes, and a light flickers on in the hall downstairs.

  Mr. Jotman shouts up, “I’ve got them going down here. Try the landing!”

  Roger flicks the nearest switch, and the ceiling light outside my bedroom comes on. “Brilliant, Dad!” he calls down.

  He sounds so different.

  We walk quite a way into the Chase before we reach the car. Mr. Jotman settles me into the front and we drive bumpily up Old Glebe Lane, over the main road, and down Ottery Lane to Bryers Guerdon. As we turn left into Fieldpath Road, I notice in the glare of the headlights two new bungalows on the other side of Bull Cottages, where old Gussie lived and, next to her, Mrs. Campbell.

  “Is old Gussie still alive?” I ask, straining my eyes through the car window to see if the front garden of number 1 is as neglected as it was before.

  “She died a couple of years ago,” Roger says. “Mrs. Campbell found her.”

  “What happened to all the cats?”

  “A van came from the RSPCA,” says Mr. Jotman. “Probably all put to sleep — riddled, most likely.”

  “The cottage has all been done up,” says Roger. “There’s this young couple in there now. They’ve named it Rhondadon.”

  “’Spect he’s called Rhonda and she’s called Don,” says Mr. Jotman.

  Roger laughs. “Rhondadon — sounds like a dinosaur,” he says.

  “Or a medicine for excessive wind,” chuckles Mr. Jotman.

  I can’t believe I’m smiling. It feels odd.

  “Must have smelled awful when they first moved in,” I say.

  “Because of the cats or the wind?” Mr. Jotman laughs as we draw up outside the house.

  The Jotman house is much as it was. Even in the darkness the wooden walls, veranda, and large wild garden are comfortingly familiar.

  We walk up the veranda steps, and Mr. Jotman pushes open the back door. There is just a little sidelight on in the kitchen. Mrs. Jotman gets up quickly from her chair, comes over, her concerned eyes searching my face, and rubs both my arms warmly.

  “It’s lovely to see you again, Cora,” she says with a nervous smile. “Look at you in your nice uniform. Roger, take Cora’s hat and coat and hang them up in the hall, would you, and I’ll make a pot of tea.”

  She turns back to me. “You and Mimi are sleeping in Roger and Peter’s room,” she says. “They’ll be all right in the sitting room. Mimi’s already in bed, on the bottom bunk. I’ve saved you some sausages. Do you want me to warm them up?”

  “I’m all right with cold, thank you, Mrs. Jotman.”

  Mr. Jotman asks me if I’ve got a telephone number for Dad.

  “I’ve only got the number for the Half Moon, our local in Limehouse. Alf will take a message.”

  Mr. Jotman looks at his watch. “It’ll be way past closing time now. I’ll ring tomorrow, find out what’s happened.”

  Roger sticks his head round the door to say goodnight.

  So odd — every room in this little house is occupied. In Guerdon Hall they are nearly all empty.

  A short while later I am snuggling down under the woollen blankets on Roger’s top bunk, in clean cotton sheets, my feet on a hot-water bottle with a knitted cover.

  It feels strange lying there in the half-darkness under some little painted aeroplanes dangling from the ceiling on bits of dusty string. A few books stand between some wooden bookends on the chest of drawers under the window — Biggles, Billy Bunter, Five on a Secret Trail, The Four Feathers, and, on the end, The Last of the Mohicans.

  Dad told me that when he was a boy, Nan had taken him to see the film starring Randolph Scott and he’d taken a shine to the girl playing Cora Munro, so when I came along that’s what he wanted my name to be. Mum insisted on Agnes, after her mother, but she wasn’t well after I was born, so Dad went to register me on his own and made me Cora.

  Mimi whispers up, “Cora? Are you awake?”

  I lean over the side.

  “You ain’t cross, are you, sis, me coming up here?” she says. “I didn’t know what to do.”

  I hang my hand down and she touches my fingertips.

  “That was really clever,” I say. “Ten out of ten with a gold star on top. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there, Mimi.”

  “It was horrible, ’specially when the lights went out, and —”

  A few seconds go by.

  “And what?”

  She turns towards the wall.

  “Nothing.”

  I feel Pete’s foot in my back.

  “It’s quarter past seven, mate,” he says.

  “Flippin’ heck!”

  It takes a few seconds for me to remember I am on the settee in the sitting room. Pushing down the top of Dad’s itchy old army blanket, I peer at Pete, already in his uniform, with a cup of tea in his hand.

  “Mum said to give you this. You’d better hurry up or we’ll miss the bus.”

  “Is the bathroom free?”

  “Dad’s in there.”

  I roll myself up to sitting, my back aching from being bent out of position all night, my eyes sore and heavy with tiredness, and take the cup and saucer.

  “It’s hot,” he says. “You’ll have to blow on it.”

  There is a slight edge to Pete’s voice.

  “What’s the matter, mate?”

  He starts smoothing his hair in the mirror over the mantelpiece. “Nothing.”

  “Come on, Pete. What is it?”

  He turns slightly away. “Why did you flippin’ well have to bring them back here?”

  “Who?”

  “You know, them two.” He jerks his thumb towards the door. “We were all right, Roger. Everything was all right again. Why did they flippin’ well have to come back?”

  “Are — are they still here?”

  “Cora must have left for Wrayness. I haven’t seen her.”

  He goes out of the door, and I sigh.

  Say nothing. Don’t talk about it.

  After school I come through the Jotmans’ back door. The family are around the table, scooping up the remains of their meal. They freeze, spoons halfway to their mouths, all eyes on me as I walk in, but it lasts no more than a moment. They’ve grown so much, they make the kitchen seem so much smaller than I remember. I just about recognize Pete, looking as if he may be almost as tall as Roger, and both of them bigger than their dad. Pete lowers his eyes and goes back to scraping out his bowl, but I catch him looking up at me quickly from under his eyelashes, then as quickly away. A little girl, grown up from Baby Pamela, sits next to Mimi at the table, studying me curiously.

  “Hurry and finish your semolina,” says Mrs. Jotman busily. “We’ll have to be quick if we’re going to get to this show in time. Roger, can you get the cloth and wipe the table down? Did I say we’re going to see The Desert Song tonight, Cora? My friend Barbara’s in it. You can always tell it’s her on the stage because of her big nose. Oh, dear — don’t tell her I said that, will you?”

  “Ruddy wast
e of time, this blimmin’ show,” says Mr. Jotman. “Can’t you tell Barbara we were all sick?”

  “No, I can’t. They’ve been rehearsing for weeks. You can’t just let people down.” The doorbell rings. “That’s Nellie come to babysit, and I’ve already paid for the tickets.”

  Mr. Jotman sighs. “Cora can have mine.”

  “No, she’s having Dennis’s,” says Mrs. Jotman. “He’s gone swimming. Peter, can you let Nellie in and go and get your shoes on.”

  “I’m not going.” He scowls.

  “What? Why not?”

  “Just not.” He slopes out of the room.

  “Peter!”

  Mrs. Jotman goes after him. Low, agitated voices in the hall move into the sitting room. The doorbell rings again.

  Mr. Jotman, irritated, goes to the front door. “Sorry, Nellie, we may not need you after all. Rosie, what’s happening?” he calls.

  “Oh, Nellie,” says Mrs. Jotman. “Here’s your half-crown. So sorry. Peter’s staying at home after all.”

  She comes into the kitchen, says, “It’s just the four of us. Coats on. Let’s be quick.”

  Nothing more is said. Mrs. Jotman busies herself putting on her hat in front of the scrap of mirror tucked behind the water heater. Roger, clearly feeling awkward, reaches for his gloves dangling over the airer.

  Outside, Mr. Jotman holds open the car door for me and says quietly, “I nearly forgot, Cora. I’ve spoken to your dad on the telephone. Said he had to go up to town quickly yesterday and got held up.” He and Mrs. Jotman exchange a look over the roof. They think I don’t see it. “Oh, and he’s sorted something out for you and Mimi. He’s coming back tomorrow — with a surprise, he says.”

  On the way to South Fairing, the headlights pick out a bit of sleet.

  I’m sitting in the back with Cora, still in my uniform. I didn’t think it was fair if she was the only one wearing her school things to a show.

  Dad breaks the slightly uncomfortable silence. “I hope that blimmin’ Audrey Finch isn’t doing the lead again,” he says, peering through the windscreen as the wipers clunk back and forth.

  “She’s got a lovely voice,” says Mum. “She used to entertain the troops during the war.”

  “The Second World War or the First?”

  “Oh, Rex, don’t be rude. She’s the only one who can reach the top notes, Barbara said.”

  “Like that ruddy Ken Pewsey. If he’s doing the Red Shadow, I’m asking for my money back.”

  “Ken Pewsey used to be at Sadler’s Wells Opera,” says Mum.

  “Selling ice creams or behind the bar?” says Dad. “Honestly, Cora, he’s been the flippin’ romantic lead for the last thirty years. You should have seen the pair of them doing Carmen and Don José last year. It was like a bit of late-flowering hanky-panky at the Over Sixties’ Club.”

  “Rex! Anyway, they’re lucky to have people who can sing at all. It’s only a little company.”

  “Then they shouldn’t flippin’ well do musicals, should they? They should stick to plays. And is that Hilda Fenton going to be conducting again? When they did The Gondoliers, Cora, she was wearing this straight dress like a tube —”

  “Rex — you shouldn’t be telling Cora about that!”

  “For heaven’s sake, woman! As I was saying, Cora,” Dad goes on, “this Hilda Fenton was standing on this podium, and every time she lifted her arms, her dress went up and everyone got an eyeful of her suspenders.”

  Cora hoots with laughter.

  “Rex! That’s enough!” Mum cries.

  We pull into the small car park of the South Fairing Community Hall.

  “What’s this Desert Song about, then?” Cora asks. “I ain’t never been to the theatre.”

  “Well, this Pierre is in love with this girl called Margot who’s just arrived in Morocco from her convent school in France,” Mum tells her, “but she doesn’t know he’s really the Red Shadow in disguise. It’s so romantic.”

  “Romantic — my foot!” says Dad. “If she can’t see it’s the same ruddy bloke, when the only difference is, one’s got an old red towel over his head!”

  “It’s the magic of the theatre,” Mum mutters as we hurry up to the hall. “Don’t spoil it for Cora, Rex.”

  Dad shows the tickets to one of the two permed ladies sitting at a table in the entrance, who shout out, “Shut the door! It’s perishing here!” every time anyone comes in.

  We push through the swing doors into the hall, find our places — halfway back on the right — and settle into the khaki-canvas and chipped-metal chairs.

  Pete might as well have been here, his empty seat a constant reminder of his refusal to come. Mum puts the box of fruit gums on it.

  Dad is looking at the programme. “Flippin’ heck,” he cries. “It is flaming Ken Pewsey and blimmin’ Audrey Finch.”

  “Not so loud, Rex.”

  “Well, honestly, how are they going to get her to look like she’s just come out of school?”

  “Maybe they’ll put a lot of makeup on her,” Mum whispers.

  “They’ll need a ruddy cement mixer.”

  Cora giggles. When she laughs, it makes me laugh.

  At exactly half past seven, the show begins.

  Dad causes a bit of a stir when the Red Shadow comes on, all in livid scarlet.

  “Who does he think he is — ruddy Father Christmas?” he whispers to Mum, but so loudly that the tittering spreads for at least three rows in front and behind us.

  Back under the dangling aeroplanes, even with the warmth of the hot-water bottle spreading up from my toes, I can’t seem to settle to sleep. In a flash I remember why — I haven’t done my geography homework: two pages on the industries of the Ruhr Valley, to be given in on Friday, tomorrow. I must do it or a report will land on Madame Mary Saint Bernard’s desk in the cold room with the parquet floor. She may already know that I slipped away early from Prizegiving and was late for school yesterday morning.

  I groan with irritation, throw back the covers, and swing my legs round, searching for the ladder with my feet. I don’t want to put the light on again and risk waking Mimi. I fumble about until I find my school jumper and pull it on over my pyjamas, stretch Mimi’s old socks onto my feet, then drag up my schoolbag, open the door as quietly as I can, and tiptoe into the hall. Noiselessly, I creep past the sitting room, so as not to disturb Roger and Pete.

  A light is coming from the kitchen. The door is ajar. I push it open and step backwards in surprise.

  “Blinkin’ heck!” Roger cries. “You scared me to death.”

  “You scared me.”

  He is sitting at the table in a navy-blue dressing gown, pen in hand, books spread out in front of him.

  “You doing your homework?”

  “It’s got to be in tomorrow,” he says, lowering his eyes, a little flush of pink creeping over his cheeks. “I didn’t have time before, with — with, you know, the show.”

  “Same here,” I say. “What’s yours?”

  “History.”

  “Mine’s geography.”

  I stand there, pulling down the edge of my jumper, self-conscious in my pyjamas and Mimi’s dirty socks.

  Roger coughs awkwardly, then slides a couple of books across the table towards him, clearing a space. “Um, why don’t you sit down?” he says.

  I sit in the chair opposite and empty my bag. “Wish I’d done history.”

  “You wouldn’t have wanted to do this, honest,” he says. “Flippin’ nineteenth-century Acts of Parliament and Reform and things. When you choose history, you think you’re going to do the Tudors or the Vikings — something bloodthirsty you can get your teeth into — then they land you with this.”

  We write, check, write again, acting busy and diligent to cover our discomfort, as if it’s somehow perfectly all right to be sitting here, alone together, at dead of night in our pyjamas, so obviously not the children we were before.

  I can’t bear it. I have to say something.

&nbs
p; “D’you fancy a cup of cocoa?”

  I can’t believe that’s the best I could come up with.

  “That’d be nice.”

  I drag myself up and, as I pass the bit of mirror behind the water heater, notice to my horror the front of my hair is sticking up, and there’s a great splodge of dried Weetabix on the front of my dressing gown. I steal a glance at Cora in the mirror’s edge. Her head is down in her book, so I try to flatten my hair with my fingers. I let go. It flicks up again. I press it down once more and hold it there while I open the cupboard door with my other hand and look for the cocoa, but can’t see it anywhere.

  “Sorry, there’s no cocoa — it’s either Horlicks or Ovaltine.”

  Cora raises her head and the corners of her mouth turn up. “Horlicks would be lovely,” she says, shifting in her seat.

  I realize I am still pressing down my fringe.

  With a cough I reach for the tin, scratching my forehead furiously as if I have an itch.

  I stick a pan of milk on the gas, spoon in some Horlicks and sugar, and give it a good stir with a wooden spoon.

  “It’ll be a bit hot,” I say when it’s ready, putting the cup and saucer down by Cora’s arm.

  “Thanks.”

  Cora sips at the cup. “You’ve put an awful lot of Horlicks in.”

  “Sorry. I like it strong.”

  The clock ticks away on the wall. We scribble in our books, drink, yawn, sigh, cross out, turn a page.

  Then, without warning, a moment from The Desert Song comes into my head. I can’t stop laughing to myself.

  “Roger! You’ll wake everyone,” Cora hisses.

  “I just thought of that Ken Pewsey, when he had to do that quick change from the Red Shadow to Pierre …”

  Cora’s face lights up. “And came in without his little wig,” she chuckles.

  “It was that look on his face when his hand went up to his head …”

  “… and he realized it wasn’t there.” Cora laughs.

  Still smiling, I rub my eyes. They feel sore.

  “What do they keep them on with?” Cora says.

  “What — toupees? I don’t know — special glue, I suppose.”

  “I wonder what happens in a strong wind.”