‘You do?’
‘I have eyes, Mum, and I have ears. Last Friday the twins told me they locked themselves out in the rain and got soaking wet while he was asleep on the sofa. Charlie said he’d “gone funny again”. Poor little beanies! No prizes for guessing what went on there. And I heard on the grapevine that you had to collect him from the pub.’
‘They don’t want him back,’ I confessed.
That call was excruciating. Our local landlord, concerned and embarrassed: I’ve had to take his car keys off him again . . . might be best if he doesn’t come here for a while.
‘Losing the agency was his worst nightmare,’ I said now, needing to defend Kit. ‘Letting people down, when they had mortgages and school fees too. The past few months have been really rough and—well, endless knockbacks and money worries have finally worn him down. Alcohol’s a sort of self-medication.’
‘Poor Kit.’ Sacha wrinkled her nose. ‘Banned from the local? That’s pretty screwball.’
Charlie appeared in the kitchen doorway, lighting up at the sight of his sister. ‘Come and see,’ he squeaked, beckoning. ‘We’ve made a slide on the kitchen floor.’
‘A slide? How?’ Sacha sounded suspicious.
‘With loads and loads of butter. It’s really slippy.’
Sacha’s jaw dropped, but I flapped a hand in defeat. ‘Leave it for now. There are worse messes than butter.’
I found Kit in our bedroom, shrugging into a jacket and looking every inch the successful advertising guru. He had a way of wearing clothes as though they didn’t matter; it was peculiarly stylish.
‘You still scrub up good,’ I murmured, taking his arm in my hands and watching us both in the wardrobe mirror. When the man in the mirror smiled back at me, I saw the old spark dancing in his eyes. After eight years of marriage, and all our troubles, Kit’s smile still made me feel happy. I turned him to face me, took hold of his lapel and began to fuss with it. ‘The picture of civilised man,’ I said, brushing my knuckles along the firm line of his jaw. ‘Good luck.’
He caught my hand and pressed it to his mouth. I felt a small tremor in his fingers, and ached for him. ‘I’ve run out of doors to knock on, Martha. If this doesn’t come off, I’ll have failed you.’
Sacha hurried in, pretending to do a double take. ‘Wow, Kit! You look like James Bond. Well, except for that zany black mane, which is more Mumbai street urchin.’ While her stepfather made a dutiful attempt to tame his hair, she plonked newly shined shoes at his feet. ‘I gave these a quick polish for you. Found them by the back door. They’re the right ones, aren’t they?’
‘You’re a princess,’ said Kit fervently. ‘How was the exam?’
‘Murder.’
‘Oh, bugger. Really?’
‘Nah, not too bad. Only one left—and then it’s party time!’
‘I’ll bet you’ve sailed through,’ predicted Kit, sitting on the bed to tie his laces. ‘Jesus! Look at the time.’
Minutes later he’d hopped into his car and was roaring away towards Bedford. Sacha and I stood at our gate, watching that bright green blur threading between the traffic. It seemed terribly significant somehow, the only coloured dot on a sombre landscape.
‘I really hope he gets it,’ said Sacha.
I held up two sets of crossed fingers, blinking hard, overwhelmed by the strain of the past weeks. I felt Sacha’s arm around my neck.
‘Don’t worry, Mum,’ she whispered, kissing my cheek. ‘Whatever happens, it’ll all come out in the wash.’
She and I spent the rest of the evening eyeing the clock, begging fate to give Kit this break. The phone rang twice. We jumped both times, but it wasn’t him. The first call was from Sacha’s boyfriend, Ivan, wondering how she’d done in physics. The next was male too, with a Dublin accent.
‘Gerry Kerr,’ he said, and instantly I remembered. One of Kit’s art college cronies, Gerry had become a dealer and swanned around the States for a few years before buying a gallery in Dublin. I had a mental image of the man at our wedding reception—an urbane figure, cornering me to swear that Kit McNamara was a fucking genius and I had to get him painting again, he didn’t care how much filthy lucre he could make in advertising.
Kit’s career was rocketing when we were married, and then the twins arrived and took up every spare second. There was never enough time to indulge his passion, unless you counted the enchantment he’d created for his family. In the boys’ bedroom it was Palaeolithic cave paintings: exquisite stags and bison chased one another all around the walls and over the ceiling, to the envy of visiting children. For Sacha he’d conjured a bewitching mural of mermaids.
‘Gerry!’ I cried now. ‘How are you? Kit’s out at the moment.’
Just touching base, Gerry said, wondering how we were doing. He’d heard about the agency going under.
‘Ad agencies are falling like ninepins,’ I explained. ‘Kit hung on for grim death but . . . well. Advertising budgets are the first thing to be slashed.’
Gerry sounded genuinely concerned. ‘Poor old McNamara. Still, look on the bright side. That man of yours is wasting his talent. This is a wake-up call.’
I looked at the sitting-room walls, where I’d hung a trio of Kit’s paintings from college days. They were strange portraits: mud-brown, impish people with angular faces. I couldn’t make head nor tail of them. I much preferred the mermaids and bison.
‘He hasn’t really painted for years,’ I said doubtfully.
‘Bloody crime. The man’s got something, Martha, and he knows it.’
‘Yes,’ I retorted, laughing. ‘You’re right. He’s got a family to support. And he knows it.’
I tried calling Kit after that. His phone promptly trilled from under a box of cereal in the kitchen. Forgetting his phone was a habit of Kit’s.
By eight the boys were fast asleep, tangled among mounds of soft toys. At nine, I persuaded Sacha to turn in too. I could tell she was shattered. Much, much later, the house phone rang.
‘Martha,’ said Kit, and my hopes plunged. His voice was flat.
He was calling from Euston station. Stella’s company had lost a crucial contract that very day and was reeling. Kit had spent the evening in a bar in Soho, consoling Stella and the boss who were now battling to stay afloat themselves. They wanted to help, he’d be top of their list if something came up, but they had nothing for him now. Sorry, mate.
‘So that’s that,’ said Kit. I could hear the alcohol clouding his voice and his thoughts. ‘I’m bloody useless.’
‘Are you coming straight home?’ I wanted us to face this together. ‘Please don’t . . . you know. Just come home. Take a taxi from the station.’
‘Soon,’ he said quietly, and rang off.
Bed was out of the question. I’d lie there rigidly awake, anxiety ricocheting around my head like a stray bullet. Instead I grabbed the in-tray— hair-raising bills screamed from its papery depths—and sat in front of the computer. I’d have to juggle everything somehow, and buy us time to get the house on the market.
Sacha had been messing about online. She must have been distracted by Ivan’s call, and forgotten to log off. There were several websites left open: YouTube, eBay. Ah, and here was her Facebook page; never anything sinister on that. I was about to close it when a warning siren blared, somewhere between my ears.
Looking for my real father!! Name is Simon apparently, passed thru Bedford 16–17 years ago. Brwn hair brwn eyes, tall. Wld be 35–40 by now? Mum swears that’s all she knows but I’m not so sure. Anyone—any ideas??? Wld really lve to trace my dad.
I sat stunned, a rabbit gaping into the harsh glare of the screen. Her Facebook friends had plenty of ideas, of course.
Have u checked ur birth certificate?
Hi sash, ask everyone in your family and all your mum’s old friends, someone knows something, lock them in a room until they spill
My dads called simon LOL we might be sisters!!! I will ask him did he shag yor mum
cld try
private detective
It’s an icy shower, the moment you realise your child is an independent being who questions family mythology. Whenever she asked about her father I told Sacha the story of Simon, a pleasant young man who couldn’t be traced. Now, it seemed, she’d started digging. One day her spade would hit a landmine, and we’d all lose limbs in the explosion.
See? Mum popped up, her voice gleeful. Those chickens are coming home to roost! One girl’s sordid secret is another girl’s father.
I staggered into the kitchen and filled the kettle, as though a nice cup of tea might somehow save us all from ruin. I couldn’t face those bills, now. The latest copy of my occupational therapy magazine lay half-read on the kitchen bench, smothered among charitable appeals. I leafed vaguely through it as the kettle boiled. Techniques in the classroom, wheelchair fitting. Several recruitment agencies advertised regularly. Jobs in Australia . . . Canada . . . New Zealand. Kit had been to New Zealand as a student, and raved about the place. Carrying the magazine back to the computer with my mug, I typed in the website address. Just for fun, I told myself. Just to pass the time until he came home.
Seductive thing, the World Wide Web. Within an hour I’d educated myself on work, education and costs of living on the other side of the world. I was scrolling my way through visa information when the little carriage clock on the mantelpiece whirred, sighed and struck midnight. The tinny chime sent fear tapping on the door of my mind, though I tried to be rational. He’d roll up any minute, and I’d give him a royal bollocking.
By the time it struck the half hour I was pacing, literally wringing my hands. Kit was wrapped around a tree—oh my God, why did I let him take the car?—brilliant eyes blank and staring, blood trickling from the corner of a mouth that would never laugh again. Perhaps he was dying alone in the rain, pulverised by thugs, his vitality flowing away down the drain. Maybe he’d thrown himself into the river.
Inactivity was unbearable. Grabbing my handbag, I scribbled a note for Sacha. Sorry gone to look for Kit. Love M x
The phone rang as I was opening the front door. Thank God. I lunged for it, expecting to hear my husband’s familiar tones—depressed, slurred, contrite. Light-headed with relief, I drew breath for a first-rate fishwife impersonation.
It wasn’t Kit.
‘Mrs McNamara? Barry Prescott, Bedfordshire police.’
The room darkened. I stared in terror at one of Kit’s paintings, and the imp smirked back at me. This was it, then: the voice of doom. I was a widow. I felt the first jolt of grief.
The voice of doom sounded matter-of-fact. ‘We’ve got your husband here. In the cells. He’s, erm, you might say he’s a little bit the worse for wear.’
‘You mean he’s drunk,’ I croaked furiously. Not wrapped around a tree, then; not pulverised by thugs or under the waters of the Great Ouse.
‘We picked him up off the High Street. Lucky he didn’t get himself run over.’
They were really quite nice about it down at the police station, though I expect they’d all been having a good laugh. Sergeant Prescott seemed positively avuncular as he led me to the cells, jingling his keys. He was well past middle age, bushy-browed and seen-it-all. ‘Your bloke’s a bit of a mess,’ he warned. ‘Bet he’ll be in hot water once he’s slept it off.’
I’ve never been so humiliated in my life—for myself, for Kit. It was like collecting a mangy dog from the pound. My beautiful husband lay sweating on a concrete bench, his once-immaculate shirt grubby and torn, reeking of vomit. Hair hung lankly over his face. At Prescott’s good-natured urging he swung his legs to the floor and sat up, pressing his head into his hands.
‘Sorry,’ he groaned. ‘Oh God, Martha, what the hell is happening?’
I needed to be out of that place; I needed to get my man home and clean and human. Prescott swiftly processed the paperwork and gave me back Kit’s wallet. Then he steered him outside and into my car.
‘Next time we find him in this state, we’ll have to charge him,’ the policeman said, and he wasn’t smiling any more. ‘You do appreciate that, Mrs McNamara? We can’t have people rolling around in the gutter.’
I dimly recall rain-soaked streets, the lights of McDonald’s, a black cat streaking across the road with a flash of luminous eyes—did that mean we were in for good luck or bad? Kit half lay with his head against the window, whispering hoarsely—sorry, sorry . . . Christ, I’m such a fucking fool—and I knew the morning would bring a thudding head, crippling guilt and even deeper despair. He’d try to pull himself up by the bootstraps, swear off the drink for a week, maybe three, and then the whole miserable cycle would begin again.
‘I’ve heard it all before,’ I said wearily.
‘Me too. I’m sick of myself.’
I swerved into our driveway and yanked at the handbrake. ‘This is bloody ridiculous. Okay, so your business went down. Okay, you can’t find work.’
‘And we’re broke.’
‘And we’re broke. It’s been hell. But it’s happened, and now it’s time—’
While I ranted, Kit was fumbling at his door. ‘I can’t get out,’ he said. I walked around and opened it from the outside.
‘There,’ I declared coldly. ‘You’re a free man.’
‘Am I?’ He put his arms around me, leaning his head against my waist. ‘I don’t think I want to be.’
‘C’mon. Bed.’
It was a struggle, because he didn’t have the will to move. I manhandled all six foot of him into the house and up the steep stairs. We’d almost made it when he sat down heavily on the top step, his head drooping as though it was made of stone.
‘Don’t wanna go to bed,’ he muttered. ‘Leave me here.’
‘Rubbish!’ I balanced on a lower step, bending to hook my elbows under his armpits. ‘Couple of Alka-Seltzer, good night’s sleep, you’ll be right as rain.’
His voice rose to a bellow. ‘Jesus, Martha! Leave me alone, will you?’
‘Shh!’ I was furious now, pushing and pummelling, trying to drag him to his feet. ‘For God’s sake, pull yourself together!’
I really, truly don’t believe he intended what happened next, though he called me a fucking smug bitch as he shoved me away. I remember thinking, as I fell—clutched at the handrail, missed—and rolled and hit the bottom step, that he had a deal of strength for someone so shambolically drunk.
I was still crumpled and dazed in a heap when I felt shaking hands on my face. Kit sounded stricken, breathy with panic and almost sober. ‘Martha? Look at me. Come on, Martha, look at me! Can you hear me?’
His face loomed close to mine, sheet-white, eyes wide and bloodshot as he searched my pupils for signs of concussion. I’d landed on my shoulder, not my head, but I felt as though I’d been run over by a truck. Kit abruptly pulled me to his chest and wrapped his body around mine. His voice was pitched higher than usual.
‘Christ Martha, Christ Martha, please be okay.’
‘Bloody hell,’ I moaned, feeling the slick warmth of blood seeping from my nose. ‘How much worse can things get?’
Then my self-control crumpled, and I began to cry, out of pure misery. Kit sprawled on the bottom step, his back against the wall, cradling my head and saying sorry, sorry, sorry.
It was there at the foot of our stairs—at rock bottom—that we finally began to talk, and to listen. We talked about our marriage, our past and our future. We faced the facts of our crisis: mortgage, school fees, frozen bank accounts. We worried about Sacha and about the boys. We seemed unable to stop talking, faces close together, whispering anxiously through the early hours. Then we began to look for a way out.
By the time we disentangled our limbs and stood up, our future was utterly changed. I felt stunned by the decisions we’d made, yet quietly elated. Kit brought me a cup of tea, gently wiping the blood from my face with a warm flannel.
‘Jesus, I’m an idiot,’ he murmured.
I laid my finger on his lips. ‘Enough,’ I said. ‘Enough regret. I need you
whole, Kit.’
The midsummer dawn was a silver gleam at the window. A new day.
Three
My sister sat pole-axed, her eyes over-bright. ‘For God’s sake, Martha! Why?’
I’d been dreading this confrontation. My glass shook, splashing wine in a red worm over my wrist. ‘It’s not been easy,’ I said feebly.
Louisa had a baby shoved up her jersey, as usual. Well, not quite a baby; we were there to celebrate Thundering Theo’s first birthday. He had teeth. He could walk. Call me old-fashioned, but should children who wear orange Kickers still be breastfeeding? She always takes things to excess, does my sister. She had four children in five years. Excessive, I call that.
‘Martha.’ She shut her eyes. ‘Tell me you’re not serious. You aren’t going to sell your house, ditch your career and move halfway around the bloody world?’
‘Well—’
‘This is Kit’s idea, isn’t it?’
‘Not really, although he’s been really low about the agency.’
‘I thought he was sick of the advertising game. Claimed to despise every thing it stands for.’
‘Perhaps, but it was his game.’
One-handed, she pretended to play a violin. ‘I love Kit, but he’s just a moody bastard. All glittering blue eyes one day, waltzing you around the kitchen, brooding Beethoven the next. You can’t uproot your family on his whim.’ She fixed me with a suspicious glare. ‘Oh God! I get it. He’s hit the bottle again, hasn’t he?’
‘No, no.’
‘If he’s laid a finger—’
‘Christ’s sake.’ I swatted at the buzzing implication. Lou was going to get the sanitised version: I wasn’t letting any skeletons out of closets; certainly not for my effortlessly competent sister. I’d even been too proud to tell her just how desperate our finances were.
‘We can’t all run away from our problems,’ she huffed. ‘How about a career change—I thought he was a frustrated artist? Those murals are extraordinary.’
‘Aha! Nail on the head. He’s going to have a shot at painting.’
The birthday boy popped up, looking smugly moon-faced while Louisa fiddled distractedly with the strap of his dungarees.
After the Fall Page 2
