She let herself into the house quietly, not because she was trying to catch anyone out, but because her head felt so fragile that even the sound of the door closing was like an explosion in her skull. Her coat was dripping, so she hung it on the hook, then spread a newspaper underneath to stop it making a wet patch on the carpet. She took her shoes off, saw that her tights were spattered with mud and took those off too, then she started to make her way downstairs. When she heard the low moaning and whimpering, her first thought was that maybe Eleanor had been sent home from school, poorly. Was it this morning she’d complained of tummy ache? But surely they’d have telephoned her at work? Just as she realised it didn’t sound like Eleanor, the moaning stopped. Marjorie sensed the sudden change in the air. There was at once an intensity, a sort of crackling static, like last night just before the thunderstorm. And she knew. She wasn’t sure how she possibly could know, only that she did. She turned the handle and pushed open the door and there they were, a ludicrously contorted tangle of flesh. She tried to take in what she was seeing. The girl, vaguely familiar, her hair a wanton mess; Ted’s naked back, pale and slightly pudgy. At least he wasn’t on top of her, so perhaps she should be thankful for small mercies. The look on their faces was one of absolute horror, and for a split second she had to fight down a perverse urge to laugh.
The three of them looked at each other for what seemed like a very long time, then the girl closed her eyes and put her hands over her face. Marjorie stood on the threshold, part of her wanting to grab the little trollop’s hands and pull them away from her eyes so she could see her properly, another part wanting to use her own hands to blot out what she was seeing. Then it came to her; this was Jeannette, the girl who’d helped out with Eleanor while she was in hospital, the one who’d answered Ted’s advert. They’d needed someone for when Ted and Peggy were both working. Marjorie had only met her a couple of times.
Ted sat up, carefully arranging the continental quilt so it still covered his lower half. ‘Marjorie . . .’
‘Don’t, Ted.’
She closed the bedroom door calmly and went back upstairs, her headache miraculously fading into the background. She walked into the kitchen without knowing why, then went back out into the hall and put her bare feet into her wet shoes. She could hear movement from downstairs. They were out of bed, getting dressed, perhaps. Of course they were getting dressed. They weren’t going to come upstairs naked, were they? She didn’t want to be here when they came up, clothed or otherwise. Maybe the girl would leave through the downstairs door. But she didn’t want to see Ted anyway, not yet, so she opened the front door and went back out into the rain, not even bothering with her coat.
She walked quickly, wanting to put as much distance as possible between herself and what she had just seen. There was a number 54 at the bus stop; she started to run, but the conductor reached up and rang the bell. She was on the verge of tears; why would nothing go right? But then the conductor, who was standing on the platform, appeared to take pity on her. ‘Hurry up, love.’ He rang the bell again four times to stop the driver moving away. ‘Room for one more inside.’
She got off in Blackheath Village and started walking, quickly finding herself up on the heath. It was too muddy to walk on the grass so she kept to the paths, feeling better for moving forward, putting one foot in front of the other. The rain was easing off now, and soon she was walking through a persistent drizzle which somehow seemed just as wet as the earlier downpour. A blanket of grey dampness shrouded the heathland; she paused by the pond across the road from the Hare and Billet and stood looking into its dark waters. There was a movement to her left, and she saw a blackbird struggling to pull a worm from the sodden earth. She looked back at the water. She’d found her husband, her dear, patient, beloved Ted, in bed with another woman. It was difficult to take in, but it had actually happened. She could feel the tears building up inside her, but for some reason she couldn’t quite let them go. There was a flutter to her left as the determined blackbird gave one last tug and half of the worm came away in its beak, the other half glistening and pulsing in the ground.
Her back was beginning to ache from standing still. She began walking again, and when she glanced at her watch she was surprised to see that she’d been out for over an hour. She felt sick at the thought of going back into the house. The girl would be gone, of course. Ted would be apologetic. But what happened now?
*
Ted was sitting at the kitchen table with a glass in his hand and a half-empty bottle of whisky in front of him. Surely that had been a new bottle yesterday? He looked older, wearier. She had an absurd desire to put her arms around him. He looked up. ‘I didn’t hear you come in.’
‘Obviously,’ she said with as much contempt as she could muster.
He dropped his gaze again. ‘I meant just now.’
She took a breath. ‘How long have you been fucking her, then?’
He flinched; he actually flinched.
‘Oh, Marjorie, that’s such an ugly word.’
She grabbed the kettle and filled it from the tap, water splashing all over her hands, before slamming it onto the stove and lighting the gas. She realised she was shaking now. ‘What would you prefer? How long have you been screwing her? Banging her?’
‘Shut up!’ Ted jumped up from his chair, making her start, but then he sat down again and put his head in his hands. ‘Oh, God, I don’t . . . I don’t know what to say.’
‘You can start by telling me how long it’s been going on.’
‘It was . . . it’s never happened before. She came round to drop off something for Eleanor – a book she’d promised her, or something – and we got talking. She started telling me how she’d fallen out with her mum and then she got upset. I . . . put my arms around her to comfort her and . . . I don’t know how . . . I didn’t mean it to happen, it was just—’
‘You didn’t mean it to happen?’ It came out as a shriek. ‘So you’re trying to say you fucked her by accident?’ There was something vaguely comforting about using this language she’d always abhorred. ‘You accidentally fucked her in our house? In our bed?’
‘Marjorie, please. I’m sorry, truly, truly sorry. It was wrong. I’m not trying to justify—’
But before he could finish she was standing over him, hitting him, pounding him with both fists. Tears were there now, but she didn’t want Ted to see them so she shut her eyes tightly and pummelled away, with no idea which bit of him her fists were making contact with.
The next minute, she seemed to be a long way away from what was happening. She’d experienced this before, that strange sensation of standing outside of herself, watching her own actions from a distance. Part of her was appalled; another part was fascinated. The only person she’d ever deliberately hurt before was herself. She had a brief memory of standing in the kitchen that day, pulling at her own hair then banging her fists against her forehead over and over until Ted managed to get hold of her and pin her arms to her sides. She remembered seeing Eleanor hiding under the table, her terrified little face peeping out from under the tablecloth.
‘For Christ’s sake,’ Ted said now, bringing her back to the present. ‘Calm down!’
She carried on hitting him, lashing out wildly.
‘Marjorie!’ He managed to get to his feet and grab her wrists. ‘Now listen.’ He struggled to hold her still. ‘I’ve done a bad thing and I’m sorry. You’ll never know how sorry. You can hit me if it makes you feel better, but not until you’ve listened to me. I didn’t plan it, it just happened – no, don’t interrupt me. You can hit me again in a minute, but I want to talk to you first.’
She opened her eyes as she felt his grip on her wrists loosen. She could see the helplessness in his face, the redness around his eyes. He’d been crying. She felt herself sag, all her energy suddenly draining away as though someone had pulled the plug out. She allowed him to lead her to a chair. He sat opposite her and poured more whisky into his glass, and then held the bottle up
and raised his eyebrows in query.
She flicked her head. ‘Tea. I just want a cup of tea.’
He got up. ‘You stay there,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ll make a pot.’
His cigarettes were on the table, so she reached across and took one while he made the tea. He poured them both a cup and brought it to the table, then picked up the whisky bottle and poured some into his tea before topping up his glass. ‘Are you sure you won’t have a drop? It’ll settle your nerves.’
She fought down a bubble of anger and shook her head.
He looked defeated, deflated. ‘Marjorie, you have to believe me; I’ve never even looked at Jeannette in that way. I just . . . it was stupid, thoughtless. Oh, God,’ he muttered. ‘What have I done?’ She thought she heard a crack in his voice. ‘I’m sorry.’ His face was stricken. ‘How can I make it up to you? I do love you, Marjorie, you know that, don’t you?’
She did know that, deep down. And she loved him. But she couldn’t say it, for some reason. Hadn’t been able to for a long time.
‘Can you forgive me?’
‘I don’t know, Ted.’ She felt a familiar sense of panic at the way her thoughts were tumbling round in her head, all coiled up and tangled. Every time she tried to straighten the thought out and read it, it just got jumbled up with all the others again. ‘I can’t think properly.’ But she wanted to make sure she remembered this clearly so she could decide how to deal with it. She made herself think the words: Ted has gone to bed with another woman. She called up the image and there it was, that intimate shape of the two of them together, Ted looking over his shoulder, caught out – guilty, guilty, guilty. And her, Jeannette. At least she had the decency to look guilty, too, and upset and embarrassed. But even with those emotions rippling across her face, even with all those things that should have weakened her somehow, what Marjorie noticed was how thoroughly healthy and alive the girl looked, almost as if you could see her heart pumping and the red blood running through her veins. The girl was young, but Marjorie wasn’t that much older, and back in the days when she’d paid attention to her appearance, she’d have said she was no less attractive. But where the light in her own eyes had dimmed four years ago, Jeannette’s eyes shone. And where Marjorie’s lips had settled into a thin, pale line, Jeannette’s were full and pink. Jeannette, Marjorie realised, was a normal, properly functioning woman. That was what Ted wanted, and he’d taken it. She looked at the pot of tea he’d made, and for a fraction of a second she imagined herself throwing the hot tea into his face; Jeannette’s too. Briefly she allowed herself the luxury of picturing them both screaming, blinded by the scalding liquid, properly punished. But Jeannette was gone, and she doubted she’d see her again. When she looked at Ted, she could no longer tell whether she loved or hated him. Again she had the sense of watching herself from a distance as she stood up, stretched her arm out across the table and swept everything onto the floor. Ted jumped up, pushing his chair back and knocking it over. ‘Marjorie, for God’s sake,’ he yelled.
But she was on her way out the door again, hot tears pouring down her face. She paused on the threshold before slamming the front door as hard as she could. It was only once she started walking that her arm began to sting and she realised that it was she who’d ended up scalded.
Eleanor: the present, south-east London
Eleanor leans back and stretches. Thank goodness she can do some of the farm’s admin while she’s down here. The work feels like a refuge, and of course it means there’s some money coming in. There’s more admin than ever now, mainly due to the expansion in the number of courses they run. It used to be just yoga and aromatherapy massage, but this year they’re offering fourteen different courses, so Jill is paying her to keep on top of the accounts, advertising, social media, and so on. It’s a connection with the farm, too.
She glances down at the corner of the screen. It’s gone four, and she’s been working at the kitchen table for almost two hours. Her mum was watching an old film, but it must have finished by now. She saves the spreadsheet and shuts down the laptop. The living-room door is open but Marjorie isn’t there. ‘Mum?’ She finds her in the dining room, frantically rifling through one of the sideboard drawers. There are papers everywhere. Again.
‘What are you looking for, Mum?’
Marjorie whirls round as though she’s been caught doing something she shouldn’t. She looks at the paper-strewn carpet and a puzzled expression settles around her features. ‘Do you know, darling, I’m awfully sorry, but I’m not entirely sure. It’ll come to me, though. It always comes to you if you don’t try to think about it, doesn’t it?’
‘Come on, let’s go through it together again, and perhaps you’ll remember.’ Every time this happens, she wonders whether, even if they can’t find what Marjorie’s looking for, there might be a photograph or a letter or something that’ll jog her memory. But she gives only a cursory glance to each item Eleanor passes to her before dismissing it with a wave of her hand.
‘Mum,’ Eleanor ventures, ‘do you think . . . ? Look, don’t take this the wrong way, but you know you said you’re looking for something you wanted to tell me about, or show me?’
Marjorie nods, her eyes still focused on the clutch of papers in Eleanor’s hand.
‘Well, do you think it’s possible that it’s something you’ve already shown me or told me about, and that you’ve just forgotten? Alzheimer’s can make you forget things, can’t it? And it can make you confused.’
Marjorie looks blank.
‘Do you think it might be that?’
‘Might be what?’
‘The illness, Mum. The Alzheimer’s.’
Marjorie looks as though she’s struggling to follow, then she nods. ‘Yes,’ she mutters. ‘They said I’ve definitely got Alzheimer’s.’
*
They are having lunch upstairs with Peggy today. Peggy’s kitchen is bright and modern, with cream-painted units and an oak worktop; red and yellow mugs hang on hooks under the wall cupboards and there are colourful prints on the walls. The room is directly above Marjorie’s kitchen, but it feels warmer and sunnier somehow, even though the window is smaller.
‘You look tired, pet,’ Peggy says. ‘How are you coping?’
Eleanor is slicing a French stick and piling it into a basket while Marjorie sets the table in the other room. ‘It’s not too bad, but she’s definitely getting worse. Yesterday she trailed around after me all day for no apparent reason, and she still says she’s looking for something. I went through it all again with her this morning, but—’
‘Nothing?’
She shakes her head.
‘It might just be the Alzheimer’s, like you said. It’s a complicated disease. And not easy to deal with.’ Peggy stirs the leek and potato soup she’s made for lunch. ‘I bet you’re missing your friends up North, aren’t you?’
‘A bit.’ She was thinking about the farm the other night as she sat with her mum, watching The King’s Speech for the third time since she’s been here. She bought the DVD after Peggy told her Marjorie loved it so much they’d seen it twice at the cinema in Greenwich. She doesn’t mind watching television, but when she’s sitting with her mother in that vast, chilly room, she finds her thoughts straying to evenings on the farm. Usually people gather in the kitchen just before seven. Sometimes the helpers are so tired they’re practically nodding over their food, but often, once the dishes have been cleared away and the kitchen tidied, people drift to the main sitting room to drink David’s home-made wine and chat, read or maybe play an instrument. It always used to be guitars or mandolins, but these days there are a lot of ukuleles appearing out of rucksacks. Dylan might join in with his treble recorder, a deeper, richer-sounding version of the horrible squealy thing most people expect – there are often groans when he mentions the recorder, until they hear him play, that is.
‘I miss Jill and the others, but I think it’s the day-to-day life I miss more. More than I thought I would, actually. And I had a text
from Jill yesterday to say she’s had another postcard from Dylan – you know, the guy I told you about who comes every year? He says he’ll be there in two or three weeks.’
‘Well, you must go back and see him, of course.’
‘No; I can’t leave you to look after her twenty-four hours a day, it’s not—’ She stops as Marjorie walks back into the kitchen.
‘I’m only in the next room, you know. There’s no reason at all why you shouldn’t go back to your farm, Eleanor.’ She sounds completely normal again. Sometimes it’s as though the old Marjorie has popped in for an hour or two and replaced the one with Alzheimer’s.
‘That’s nice of you, Mum, but I’m not sure you—’
‘For goodness’ sake. I don’t need constant supervision like a naughty child.’
Peggy puts her hands on her hips. ‘Then stop bloody well behaving like one, you cantankerous old cow.’ And they both end up laughing. Eleanor feels a familiar pang. Why can’t she laugh with her mum like that?
‘You need to recharge your batteries,’ Peggy continues. ‘Having you here these last few weeks has done me a power of good, never mind your mum. I’m sure we’ll be all right for a while.’
‘Let’s wait and see,’ Eleanor says. ‘I don’t need to dash off immediately, whatever happens.’
*
During the afternoon, as she listens to her mum and Peggy chatting easily and normally, she begins to daydream about going back up to Scalby. Even if it’s only for a couple of weeks. Her fingers are almost tingling with the desire to get back to the digging and planting. She longs for the fresh green smell of things growing, the feel of the crumbly soil between her fingers. Not to mention the clean, salty sea air, the walks along the clifftop and the sound of the water lapping at the rocks below. And, of course, Dylan. Has he ever seen her with any more than a few sparse patches of hair? She doesn’t think so. It’s long enough to comb now, although she only does so tentatively. Perhaps she’ll go and see Gaby again when she goes back.
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