by Syd Moore
‘Or garden,’ I added. ‘No thanks. So what now?’
She shrugged. ‘Play it by ear. See how you go. Tune in over the weekend. I’m around most of the time. You never know, this might be the extent of it. Could be a blip in the space-time continuum, or something.’ She laughed.
‘Could just be my brain,’ I said, without mirth.
‘Oh yeah.’ Her face grew larger on the screen. ‘You seen your doc yet?’
‘Tomorrow, before work’ I told her. ‘Way things are going though, I might not mention it.’
‘Do what you need to,’ she said, and waved goodbye.
I did end up telling Doctor Cook some of the incidents. It was hard not to. He had such an accomplished bedside manner and for a doctor’s surgery his was one of the nicest I’d been in. Once upon a time it must have been the formal dining room of the house. It was dominated, on its northerly wall, by an impressive marble fireplace adorned with grapevines and pheasants. A bit more rural than you’d connect with Leigh but nevertheless, it had charm.
Behind Doctor Cook’s desk, double windows opened onto a large, rambling back garden. Flowerbeds to each side of the lawn burst with roses, hollyhocks, sweet peas and other plants I couldn’t name. Their cheerful scent mercifully overpowered the more clinical smell of the room.
Further back, behind a rickety glasshouse, stood a magnificent cedar so aged and heavy that its lower limbs were supported by wooden posts. Belted around its trunk was a large wooden bench. It must have been the perfect place to sit in summer evenings, which I mentioned to Doctor Cook, in a futile attempt to evade the reason for my appointment.
‘Yes,’ he smiled, crinkling his eyes. Today he had on a red bow tie with pale pink stripes and a white waistcoat that made him look like he’d be quite at home in a barber shop quartet. ‘I built the seat myself, many years ago when I was far younger and far more confident with my DIY skills than I really should have been.’
I glanced at it again. It was sagging on its left side. ‘Looks all right to me.’
‘The tree needs constant attention but it’s worth it.’ He tilted his chin up signalling a change of subject. ‘Now, how are you coming along, Ms Grey?’
I had decided to couch my worries as a question about medicinal dosage and told him that since I’d reduced my anti-depressants I had seen a few weird things. He tried to get me to elaborate but I managed to make the events sound fairly innocuous. I didn’t want him locking me up.
‘My temperature has been fluctuating quite wildly and sometimes I’m seeing shadows or I think I’m seeing shadows.’
‘Hm.’ He frowned. ‘Have you been sleeping well?’
Several times over the past ten days I had woken up throughout the night in a knot of sheets, covered in perspiration. ‘Not really.’
‘That may have more to do with it than the medication but these things tend to be interrelated. I can write you a prescription for sleeping pills if you think that might help? We all need sleep. Very good for one’s mental health.’
I hesitated then shook my head. Lately Alfie hadn’t been going through the night either. I needed to sleep lightly enough to respond to his cries.
‘Well, why don’t you see how it goes and come back to me in a couple of weeks if things haven’t improved?’
His lack of insistence was comforting.
‘Have you had your referral from the hospital yet, my dear?’
‘It would be a letter, wouldn’t it? No, I’ve not had it.’
He tutted. ‘I think that needs to be our priority at the moment. Let me just check with Janice to make sure she sent the request through, although I imagine it’s more likely to be a delay at the other end.’ He was nimble on his feet and out of the door within seconds, leaving me on my own.
I sat back into the chair and studied the heavy framed painting hanging over the fireplace. It was a landscape of the Old Town looking up over the fishermen’s sheds to Belton Hills. In the distance you could see the crumbling tower of Hadleigh Castle pointing its bony finger up at the sky. Beyond it, to the west, the artist had depicted a glorious sunset full of ambers and lilacs. It was a delightful pastoral verging on the saccharine. There was a signature in the corner. I got up, about to inspect it more closely. As I passed the French doors something cracked on the lower pane. I stopped for a moment then turned my face to the sound.
The doors had been wedged open by ruddy clay bricks. Rolling away from them on the patio was a small brown pine cone.
I did a double take and drew my breath in sharply. It was identical to the cone I’d found in my living room; same length, identical pattern.
For a moment the world stilled.
Then the door between the consultation room and the hallway flew open.
If Doctor Cook was surprised by my position he didn’t let on. His tone was concerned. ‘Is everything all right, my dear?’
I pointed to the pine cone. We both noticed the tremble to my hand. ‘That cone. It just dropped against the window.’
Doctor Cook stepped behind the desk. ‘It’s from the cedar tree,’ he said, and sat down expectantly.
But I couldn’t move. ‘From the cedar?’ I repeated uncertainly. ‘But the tree is all the way down there, at the bottom of the garden.’
Clouds passed over the sun throwing the garden into gloom. An intense feeling of unease flooded me.
Doctor Cook’s brow creased. ‘There’s a pair of mischievous magpies who call it home. They’re constantly stealing things and dropping them en route back to the tree.’
I took a last look at the pine cone and shivered.
He spoke gently. ‘Sit down. Are you sure you won’t take a prescription? If you don’t mind me saying, you look like you could do with a rest.’
‘No. No, thank you.’ I went to the chair and picked up my jacket.
‘The referral is well under way. You should be contacted very shortly. Now do take some time to relax.’ He stood to see me out.
‘Yes. I will.’ I turned at the door to send him a quick smile of thanks but he was looking away from me out of the window.
I kept my head down at work, reluctant to interact with anyone. I’m not good at small talk at the best of times and today I needed some solitude so I could bury myself in the course review – an analysis of the previous year’s strengths, weaknesses, retention, achievement and success rates. It wasn’t my favourite part of the job but within an hour the statistical overload had blocked out the morning’s incident and by the time Sue popped in to see if I fancied coffee I had more or less convinced myself that sometimes coincidences were just that.
It was Sue’s last day before she went on maternity leave and she was determined to have a single glass of wine to celebrate. So after work a bunch of us headed down to the Red Lion to toast her. I was irritated by the appearance of McBastard, nearly an hour later, and even more alarmed when he sauntered over to the table where John and I sat.
John, of course, was an impeccable host but McBastard jittered uncomfortably as he socialized with the plebs. You could tell he was uncomfortable and veered from slightly too informal with John and Edwin, who had also joined us, to rigid and closed off in his exchanges with me. To be honest, I didn’t encourage much dialogue and I probably would have left earlier if it hadn’t been for the fact that Alfie had gone for a sleepover with Martha’s two and I had the evening to myself.
After another hour the vast consumption of alcohol meant everyone loosened up. Sue was looking at everyone’s drinks jealously and someone suggested it would be a good time to do the presentation. McBastard said a few words about what an impact she’d made, how she’d be sorely missed and that he wanted all the details about the birth (yeah right) and pictures of the baby.
Everybody clapped. Someone bought another couple of bottles of plonk. I gave Sue a big hug and she unwrapped her present of nappies, baby grows, chocolates and Mothercare vouchers, and promptly burst into tears. John, well-oiled now, started singing ‘For she’s a j
olly good fellow’ and everyone, the regulars, the bar staff and even our po-faced manager, joined in.
At some point Sue left and our numbers dwindled. It was only when I found myself outside having a fag with Edwin that I noticed the sun had gone down. Above us clouds the colour of burnt amber sealed in the day’s heat. Edwin commented that he could feel a storm coming and I agreed.
‘I have a twinge above my eyebrows. That’s usually a sign of imminent meteorological disturbance.’ McBastard had slithered up behind us. He shot a glance at me. ‘A storm.’
I knew it was a conversational inroad, but it was late and we were all slaughtered so I just couldn’t help myself. ‘I watch the weather reports, thank you.’
He shifted uncomfortably for a second then seemed to square up to me.
Sensing another imminent disturbance, Edwin excused himself and escaped to the bar. I was desperate to follow suit but I was only halfway through my cigarette. It would have been rude, and although McBastard’s company set my teeth on edge, he was still my boss.
‘It’s so hot in there,’ he commented, trying to fill the conversational vacuum Edwin had left behind.
I would have disagreed for the sake of it but even on the street, sweat was creeping down my hairline. ‘In summer too,’ I rejoined, content to offer sarcasm.
McBastard breathed out wearily and looked at me. He was holding a pint and had pushed his hair back so that I got the full benefit of those brown eyes, and their swirling iris lava. ‘You seem tense lately, Sarah. Is everything OK?’
A snort escaped me – the number of people who enquired after my health was increasing by the day – and I raised my glass. ‘Nothing that a few bevvies can’t cure.’
To my astonishment he clinked his pint to mine. ‘I’ll drink to that.’ He took another sip. ‘I don’t know about you, but I can’t wait for the holidays.’
His candour took me off guard: he’d never said anything negative about work. ‘I suppose so,’ I replied, more glumly than I intended.
‘Oh? Aren’t you doing anything nice over the break?’ He shook his head quickly and sighed. ‘God. I sound like a hairdresser. Sorry, I mean – are you going on holiday?’
He was wobbling slightly on the pavement, his tight, work persona diluted by beer, so I cut him some slack. ‘That could be another vocation for you perhaps?’
McBastard creased his eyebrows together and grunted. ‘It’d be the third.’ I watched as he leant his angular frame against the wall and rubbed his eye. He had a shattered look about him. ‘After the clergy and education.’
A bunch of drinkers swept through the doors and bundled into me. I took a step towards him. ‘What? Really? You were a vicar?’ My eyes were wide.
‘Rector, actually. It’s a bit of a family tradition.’
‘Wow.’
He smiled enigmatically at my expression.
‘That kind of explains a lot,’ I said, externalizing thoughts that should have remained unspoken.
‘Explains what?’ He was still smiling.
‘Well,’ I gestured my fag hand at him. ‘The brimstone and fire. Health and Safety and all that crap.’
The corners of his mouth fell slightly but the smile hung on in there. ‘Go on.’ Threat lingered in the undertone.
I was slurring now, oblivious to any boundaries I might be bulldozing over. ‘Rector = Rectitude, Properness = Health and Safety = McBastard.’
Now his mouth dropped right open and his eyes clamped on me. They were large and wild. ‘What?’
I’d always thought that he didn’t care for the opinions of others. True, I was drunk and had little empathy, but for a moment there, I felt his shock. I guess I’d imagined that somewhere in that heart, if he had one, he wasn’t swayed by what inferiors thought of him. But his expression spoke volumes. McBastard cared.
I had to stop calling him that.
Startled by this revelation, I pulled on my fag and re covered enough to smooth it over. ‘McWhittard = Health and Safety. You know, it’s your thing isn’t it? Quality. Course Review. Discipline.’
He glanced away at the smokers beside us and I saw him sag a little. An index finger crept to his lips. He bit the nail. ‘Are you comparing those to the duties of a man of God?’
It had me floundering, not entirely sure where to go with the conversation. There was a challenge in his words that I couldn’t meet. Give me a staff meeting and I’d have nailed him. But here, outside the pub with a sackful of vino under my belt my resources escaped me.
McBastard, sorry, McWhittard fixed me with a strange half-gaze – eyes down, mouth closed, contemplative, then he pointed to the cigarette packet half tucked into the arm of my dress. ‘Give me one of those.’
‘A fag?’
He took a long slug of beer. ‘Old habits …’
‘Which reminds me of monks,’ I said, but this time, thankfully, he laughed. I returned his gaze and for a moment we watched each other. He was the first to look away. ‘Indeed,’ he said. There was a blush to his cheek.
The lighter sparked, went out, sparked again, spluttered and died. McWhittard stepped up to the group of smokers beside us – younger and far more boisterous – and asked them, very politely, for a light. One of them, the tallest, took out a Zippo and lit the cigarette eagerly. McWhittard returned and drew hard, really hard, on the cigarette. He so wanted it.
‘So, how long has it been? Since you stopped?’ It was obvious he’d been a smoker. Some people fake it but you could see he was famished.
He exhaled a long plume of smoke out of his mouth and both nostrils. ‘Since I started this job. Eight months and two weeks.’
My own fag was out now. I flicked it to the floor and ground it with my heel. ‘That sounds like you’ve been counting the days,’ I chuckled.
He blew out again, slumped an inch and gazed over my shoulder into the middle distance. ‘There are some things we just have to do. Might not like them. But have to do them.’ For a moment it looked as if a cloud was passing over him: his eyes fell and his face darkened. Then he tossed back his hair and straightened up. ‘Know what I mean?’
‘What kind of things?’ I asked, almost starting to enjoy the exchange.
He looked up the street, took another long drag, then turned and faced me. It was dark, and his eyes were filled with black shadows. ‘You left this area, but you’ve been drawn back, right? What for? Do you ever wonder?’ His voice was low but he spoke quickly with intensity to his voice that I had never heard before.
For a moment I wondered if John had passed on any thing that I’d told him in confidence. Surely not? He was reliable.
‘I’m not sure what you mean,’ I told him.
He paused, then stepped out of the shadows towards me. I could see his eyes now and they were wide, focused on my own.
He opened his mouth to speak then something behind me caught his eye. A sharp nip to my left buttock had me spinning round to find John standing behind us, dribbling. He winked. His hair was messed up and clammy, his face greasy, and he had tied his jumper around his waist. Somehow he had lost several shirt buttons.
‘What was that for, you cheeky git?’
He was swaying and leant an arm on me to steady himself. My bag was draped over his shoulder.
‘Called a cab. I’ll take you home.’ I glanced at McWhittard, who had stood back from me, dragging hard on his cigarette, and told John I wasn’t sure that I wanted to go home right now. But as I did a white taxi pulled up by the kerb.
McWhittard leant over and touched my arm. ‘I think someone needs to get him back, don’t you?’ I caught a whiff of hops, smoke and superior attitude. But for once it wasn’t unpleasant. In fact it was very human and more than slightly intriguing.
I glared at John, but McWhittard was opening the taxi door and helping him into the back of the cab. ‘Sarah, there are some things we just have to do, right?’ And then he laughed.
I smiled back, took my place beside my drunken friend and pulled the seatbelt
across my body with reluctance. McWhittard closed the door and popped his head through the open window. ‘Night, John. Sleep well.’ He faced me. ‘Sarah, course review on Monday.’ Then he grinned and banged on the roof of the cab.
‘Fucking hell,’ John said, as soon as we pulled away. ‘That bloke never stops, does he?’
‘Oh, I dunno,’ I said quietly. ‘I think he just did.’
Once home I made the most of what me-time I had left. I showered then rubbed myself down with a silky eucalyptus body cream.
As I lay on my bed I let my mind wander over the day. It ignored Doctor Cook and went straight to McBastard. No, McWhittard. He’d been chilled and borderline human and, after the initial slip with his nickname, I’d found myself almost enjoying his company. And I knew that he wanted to talk more.
His eyes came to me. That strong vivid gaze. The constant swirling of reds and ambers in the pool of dense brown. The wrinkles around them and across his forehead now spoke to me more of character, the strength of his stature.
There was something alluring, it had to be said, in his build, in his power. Now I knew that he was a man of conviction, too. I liked that.
I should ease up on him. I would ease up on him as long as he eased up on me.
A waft of laughter from the bar down the road blew in on the breeze.
It was still early but I was done in and soon I’d drifted off.
The dream when it came started calmly enough.
I was at once in the scene and yet not part of it. I was an observer, a drifting consciousness. The panelled room in which I floated was quiet. Deathly quiet. Its silence was broken only by the thrumming tick tock of the grandfather clock. The day outside was bright but grey. By the window stood a man I vaguely recognized from my episode on the beach, the man who had waded into Drowning Pool to try to pull me out. Father. He wore the same buttoned down coat and trousers. As he stared out of the window, his hand flitted over his brow. His kindly face was grim.
On a wooden chair opposite him sat a woman, roughly the same age, sitting stiff-backed and upright. Mother. On her lead-grey face she wore a pained expression and wrung her hands unconsciously in her lap.
