A Life Between Us

by Louise Walters

  Write soon,

  Love from Tina xx

  Twenty-seven

  January 2014

  Keaton entered the front door and slowly closed it behind him. The house was quiet and empty. Normally, Tina would be in the kitchen preparing their evening meal or would have the meal ready and waiting on the stove, and be curled up on the sofa with a book or watching television. Today she was doing none of these things. She wasn’t there.

  Had she left him? Had he been too harsh this morning? Should he have been kinder before he’d left for work? The answer was yes, he should have been kinder, but it was far too late now, and how long ago all that was. He’d avoided her all day, deciding not to call or text. He’d tried to avoid Sharanne all day too, but that had been more difficult.

  A terrible thought occurred to him as he searched the house. What if Sharanne had told Tina what had happened that morning? Surely she would not have done so, but people could be hard to read. He was a pretty good observer of his fellow human beings and one thing he had noticed was that sometimes people did the unexpected thing. Even quite predictable people like Sharanne. And there was a streak in her he didn’t like, and never had, something untrustworthy. What a fool he was.

  There was no sign of any bags having been packed; everything was neat and tidy as usual. Tina’s toothbrush was in the bathroom. He was being illogical and paranoid, he told himself. Of course Sharanne hadn’t rung Tina. What a ridiculous notion. Tina’s winter boots were not in the hall, nor her coat. He knew where she would be. Panic over, he supposed, although living with his neurotic, desperate wife was to live in a permanent state of panic. He made for the front door.

  The cemetery was cold. The day had remained clammy and foggy, oddly disappointing for the time of year because although it was still January, it was its last day. February was nigh and that filled Tina with hope. February was the month where winter could be banished, when all around, life could break free. Snowdrops and crocuses were already poking through the hard ground. They looked small and bullied as though January was stamping on them, forcing them back into the earth. Tina tended her sister’s grave, as she had done for the past twenty-five years. She snipped at the grass although it wasn’t yet growing and tidied away the dead poinsettia she’d left on Christmas Eve.

  Tina sat back on her haunches and arranged a new bunch of pink carnations in the urn, taking care to set them to advantage. Her sister’s grave was one of the prettiest and most well-kept in the cemetery. Tina was proud of it. After her work, she looked around. Her favourite wooden bench – dedicated to “Norma, beloved wife and mother” – was empty today. Sometimes the lady with the green coat was sitting on the next bench along, sometimes not, and today she was not. The woman had been visiting the cemetery for a few weeks, Tina thought, but they had never spoken. The woman didn’t seem to visit a grave. She just liked to sit on the bench to read and contemplate, or so it seemed. Sometimes the woman brought lunch with her. Tina knew she was missing somebody. She could tell the woman was lonely. The cemetery was quiet, the sounds of traffic out on the main road distant and dull; it was a good place for solitude. Nobody bothered you here. Birds sang all year round, and in the summer bees and other insects thrummed the long afternoons away. Tina made for Norma’s bench and sat down, even though today was not the day for sitting around out of doors; something the insects had obviously grasped, as had the green-coated woman.

  Tina pulled on her mittens, rewrapped her thick self-knitted scarf around her neck and did nothing for several minutes, apart from sit. Meg was “off” with her today, clearly. Tina had denied Meg’s existence yesterday. Last night Meg had been weird – demanding. Yet Tina couldn’t really blame her for being peeved. She wasn’t here. Tina was.

  And Keaton was too. He was walking up the slope towards her. He never came, but today he was here, making his determined way along the path towards this upper, quiet end of the cemetery. He looked cold and out of place. Tina watched as his breath billowed around him. His coat looked heavy, and Tina knew that underneath the coat his body would be snug and warm. She stood up as he approached her. It was just as well Meg wasn’t around today. Meg hated Keaton. Keaton hated Meg, in a sense.

  The husband and wife’s eyes met and in that moment they both felt a huge surge of relief.

  She doesn’t know; that was Keaton’s immediate thought as their eyes met. She has no idea. She was there to tend her sister’s grave. All was well. And tomorrow he would hand in his notice. He would find another job and once he’d left, he would never see Sharanne Kite again. How stupid he had been today. Tina looked small and lost and as he drew nearer he could hear her breath coming in short, quick bursts and gasps. He wondered if he should have come. He wondered if Meg was “here”. Tina looked strange; pained and pale. And cold. He reached her, opened his coat, pulled her to him and wrapped her in it, kissing her head.

  They stood for some time, wordless. And Keaton could see why she came here, how she managed to “communicate” with Meg. There was a sense of peace here. This was a place of reconciliation, and he felt it now. He hadn’t realised it before, those few times he’d come alone to his sister-in-law’s grave, without Tina’s knowledge. He’d wanted to feel what Tina felt, to see what Tina saw, to hear what she heard. Of course, he’d felt nothing, only sadness. The death of a child was inexpressibly tragic, even if it had occurred thirty-eight years ago. Time meant nothing.

  And death was one thing. Refusing to accept death was another. Blaming yourself for a death, another matter still.

  ‘How did you know where to find me?’ asked Tina eventually, her voice muffled as she snuggled inside Keaton’s coat.

  ‘I know where your sister’s grave is, you idiot.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘And I guessed you’d be here.’

  ‘I am here.’

  ‘Is Meg – is she here too?’

  ‘Not today.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Take me home, please?’

  ‘Gladly. It’s bloody freezing!’

  ‘Keaton?’ Tina drew away and watched as Keaton did up his coat.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Whatever happens… will you forgive me?’ She stooped and picked up her things.

  Keaton took the things from her to carry to the car. He was glad he wouldn’t have to walk all the way back to their house on the other side of town. But it had been worth the long, cold trudge up here, and he was glad he’d come. He’d do anything for Tina, he realised anew. He suppressed a sob. His skin prickled.

  ‘I won’t ever have to forgive you,’ he said. ‘You’ve done nothing wrong.’

  Twenty-eight

  August 1976

  Tina was a bookworm, no doubt about that. Meg less so, but she was a good and patient girl, waiting while Tina chose her new books. After the bookshop they were going to the toyshop, for Meg to pick something, just because. She deserved a treat. Edward wanted to talk to the girls. They needed to know he was on their side. He’d been shocked by his sister’s actions yesterday, the vitriol towards her nieces, and the actual burning of books – Tina’s books, her prized possessions. Tina was a bright child, and books were her great ally in this world, as they were his, and it had been unforgiveable of Lucia. He’d talk to her too, he resolved. And all of this stopped him from dwelling too much on his own life; his own loss and his wife’s undreamed-of betrayal. It was a melodramatic word, betrayal, but he couldn’t think of a better one.

  He’d phoned work and asked for a few days’ leave, after he’d explained the situation. His boss was a good man, and a week or two, more if he needed it, had been granted with only a few questions asked. Everybody loved a bit of intrigue, Edward knew. He didn’t tell his boss that he doubted he’d carry on living in London. He didn’t say he’d probably give up the job. He needed time to think, time to consider.

  So today he h
ad time to devote to his little nieces, and time to try to discuss things with them. He wanted to make things better.

  Edward treated Tina to three or four other books besides the replacements. Then the party made its way to the toyshop. Meg was decisive and picked out a cowboy suit within a minute. Wouldn’t she rather have a tea set? No. It had to be the suit, complete with a plastic gun and holster. They popped into the haberdashers to see Pamela, who, Edward was relieved to see, was calm and serene once more. She was busy with a customer, so it was a flying visit. She excused herself from her customer, who smiled indulgently at the little girls as Pamela rushed over to them. She told Tina she could pick out her favourite material and she’d “run up” a frock for her. But there was no time to choose material today. Another time, she promised. The girls waved goodbye to her as they left the shop. They were excited and hot, so Edward bought them and himself ice-creams and they sat on the frazzled grass in the park, the morning’s purchases in cluttered heaps beside them. Tina had a 99 with a flake. Meg had a Zoom. There was silence as they hurriedly ate their ice-creams. The sun was high and hot and Tina’s melted quickly. She was mindful of her clothes getting dirty and was dismayed when a blob fell onto her pretty yellow frock. ‘Lucia will be cross,’ she said. She always nagged at them to keep their clothes clean.

  ‘That’s not all she nags about, is it?’ Edward said, slurping his own 99. In truth the ice-cream made him feel sick, but he didn’t let that show. He took a large white hanky from his trouser pocket and passed it to Tina.

  ‘No,’ said Meg. ‘In actual fact she nags us about lots of things.’

  ‘Does she… is she… is she always fair to you girls?’ asked Edward, carefully. If Simone was here she’d know exactly what to say. She was, she had been, so sensitive with them.

  ‘No!’ they chorused, glancing at each other. They had that twin thing between them, something Simone had often observed. They managed to communicate just by look, although sometimes they didn’t even need a look. It could be unnerving or it could be charming. Today it was neither. Edward just wanted to help them.

  ‘You know, girls, you really should tell your mum and dad if things get too much.’

  They looked at each other. Meg, barely perceptibly, shook her head.

  ‘Dad has enough on his plate,’ said Tina. She was parroting her aunt, Edward felt sure. ‘And Mummy’s got her job now. She’s too busy.’

  ‘Even so, you don’t have to put up with nonsense,’ said Edward.

  ‘We’ll get our own back. One day!’ cried Meg. She’d finished her Zoom. She looked hot and flustered and cross.

  ‘Well, let’s hope it never comes to that,’ said Edward. His ice-cream was truly revolting, but it was too late now and there were no bins close enough. It was such a hot day and all three were uncomfortable lounging on the grass. It should have been green and soft and lush and cool, not this barren prickly brown. What a horrendous summer this was turning out to be. He finished his ice-cream quickly. ‘If you can’t tell your mum and dad, you must tell me,’ he said.

  ‘Do you live with Aun— Lucia now?’ asked Meg.

  ‘I think so. For now,’ said Edward. And it sounded awful, and weak, and pathetic. Living with his mother, his sister… his wife gone off with another man. That made him a cuckold. His life had come to this. But the girls didn’t seem to mind, for they smiled broadly at each other.

  He spoke some more to Meg and Tina, drawing them out. He tried to advise them, but he wondered how much advice eight-year-old kids really took notice of? They didn’t yet live in the adult world, and that was just as well, and long may it continue. But the girls would grow up, he knew, and soon, and there was nothing anybody could do about that.

  Wednesday 25th August 1976

  Dear Elizabeth

  Another letter soon after my last one but I have more to tell. Meg still thinks Lucia is putting poison in our food and she won’t eat any of the things that Lucia makes any more. I don’t think there is any poison and I think Meg is being silly but she won’t listen. This morning she ate some of her breakfast because Uncle Edward made it and it was eggs and bacon which you can’t really poison, she said. But she wouldn’t drink the orange juice because Lucia made it. Here we have powder juice, it comes in a packet and you mix it with water from the tap and it tastes nice. But it must be nicer to have real fresh orange juice that I have never had. This afternoon we are picking plums and making the jam I told you about in my last letter. Granny told me she has made plum jam in August ever since she has lived in this house which is a very long time. I am going to post this to you before we pick the plums. Meg says she will not be eating the jam but I reminded her we are helping to make it so we will know if it is poisened or not. I am looking forword to it as I have never done it before and I like cooking specially cakes and you use jam in cakes so this is going to be fun too. We haven’t been allowed to help before because the pans and the jam get very hot so I feel grown up today a bit.

  It is still hot but last night I thought I heard thunder.

  Love from Tina in England x

  Twenty-nine

  January 2014

  They arrived home from the cemetery and Keaton cooked a simple dinner. After eating, he ran a bath for Tina, full of her favourite soak, and brought her a cup of coffee. He put down the lid on the toilet and sat, exhausted, but wanting to talk to his wife, to make her understand that he was on her side, despite appearances that morning. It had been a long day, draining and sad.

  ‘What is it you want, Tina?’ he asked, leaning forward, legs crossed.

  ‘You know what I want. Lots of things. I want Meg.’

  ‘But that can never be.’

  ‘I know. I do know. Don’t worry. I’m not entirely mad. It’s just… I know this will sound stupid… She may have left this world but she hasn’t left me. Her heart beats in my heart. It’s like we’re in tandem. She can’t let me go.’

  ‘Or, you can’t let her go. You keep giving her… consciousness. And words and actions.’

  ‘He lies in the laurels, he runs on the grass…’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Oh, just a poem. Robert Louis Stevenson. I used to read it a lot. It used to scare me.’

  ‘Don’t be scared any more.’ Keaton leaned forward and turned on the tap, topping up the warm water. He’d already made a hot water bottle and placed it under their duvet, wrapping around it a pair of Tina’s pyjamas.

  ‘I know now why I… why I can’t… why she won’t let me go.’

  ‘OK. Tell me.’

  ‘I have to kill Lucia.’

  Keaton looked at his wife. She looked back and she didn’t flinch.

  ‘That’s a bit melodramatic, isn’t it?’ he said, after thinking through his options. There were many things he could have said.

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘You want to go to jail?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘As I thought. Be realistic, darling. Listen, why don’t we offer to have Edward move in with us? We’ve all the space. We could convert a bedroom into a living room for him so he’s got his own flat, more or less. We could do something with the garage, even. Let’s get him away from that awful house.’

  ‘He won’t leave. I know he won’t.’

  ‘He might if we offer.’

  ‘And leave Lucia all on her own?’

  ‘I think she’s quite capable. And since when do you care? You were just talking about killing the woman.’

  ‘You haven’t asked me why.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know why you haven’t.’

  ‘Be serious.’

  ‘We th— I think she was the one that killed Meg. Probably. It wasn’t all down to me.’

  Keaton turned on the tap again although the bath was high and hot and didn’t n
eed topping up. But he wanted to do something. At least she wasn’t blaming herself this time.

  ‘What makes you think that?’ he said.

  ‘Remember when I fell off the steps in the kitchen at Christmas time? At Lane’s End?’

  ‘Of course I remember.’

  ‘I had a flashback, I think. To the day Meg died. I realised… it wasn’t me. I don’t think it was me. Lucia blamed me. But it was her. I’m sure of it. Her doing. I think I’ve blamed myself all these years but maybe I’ve been wrong. I don’t know.’

  ‘What happened that day, darling? You’ve never really explained… I know there was an accident… but…’

  ‘It was horrible. The worst day of my life.’

  ‘Tell me. I do want to understand.’

  ‘I don’t know where to begin.’

  ‘Start at the beginning.’

  ‘The beginning? If only I knew where that was.’

  ‘Can’t you try?’

  Thirty

  August 1976

  Lucia was worried about Marghuerite. She was growing into a wild, disrespectful child. Wilful, rude and disobedient, leading little Christina astray. If only Pamela would take her head out of the clouds and bring up her own daughters. It really wasn’t fair on anybody, this ridiculous job of hers. Pamela was being selfish, there was no doubt about that, at least not in Lucia’s mind. Didn’t the woman want to be a proper mother? Why didn’t William put his foot down? Lucia was tired, running around after those girls day in, day out, counting down the days until school would start up again in September. Mum wasn’t much use these days, although she did try, with her insistence on baking, even hanging out laundry from time to time, in her haphazard fashion. Long gone were the days of her neatly hung washing line: clothes on a Monday, linens on a Tuesday. Now they had a washing machine (bought for his mother by Edward) and it was mostly Lucia who loaded it, any day of the week, any time of the day, once the pile was big enough. She found herself washing rather too many of the girls’ things. Marghuerite especially made no effort to keep her clothes clean. She was rough, forever climbing trees, scrabbling around in this summer’s interminable dry dirt. She was a tomboy. And how difficult it was to tell girls from boys these days; all young people wore their hair long, and dressed in the same shapeless T-shirts and sweaters. And jeans, which were heavy and took so long to dry. She wasn’t the girls’ damned skivvy!