Now that Ella was at secondary school, there was no more meeting up with other women at the school gates. I drove Ella and Sam to school, sat in the traffic through town, and literally let them out of the car wherever I could find a spot near the school to pull over for a second. And then I drove on. And of course it was unthinkable that I should approach the gates in person at home-time; oh no, I had to loiter in the car with the engine running, parked up on the kerb somewhere nearby, along with umpteen other useful but never-to-be-acknowledged mothers. Unless I met them both back at Melanie’s. She was the only adult I spoke to most days. Who would believe that friends were once a commodity I had seen fit to fritter and waste, so plentiful was the supply? Now I had but one friend, and lacked the sociability to make any others. I had become unappealing even to myself, and it was easier to hide away.
For a long time I’d thought about phoning Karen, my friend from back in London. We had known each other since Sam was a baby; we’d met at a post-natal coffee morning and been friends ever since. Her son Joseph and my Sam had grown up together, gone through school together. I felt regret now that I had so easily let her go, but I’d been too full of my move here, and my belief that a new school and a whole new environment was the right thing for my Sam, for all of us. The loss of a few old friends had seemed a price worth paying when I was flushed with the thrill of our new country life. Friends were two a penny back then, and I was naive enough to believe that those we left behind would somehow still be with us; that they’d be as thrilled with our move as we were, that they would never tire of slapping up the motorway through the Friday night traffic to visit us and admire our so-much-better life.
I had not spoken to Karen for well over a year. We’d exchanged Christmas cards, that was all. But I’d thought about phoning her often, and one wet morning in a moment of excruciating loneliness, I did.
Ridiculously, my heart was pounding as I dialled her number. I thought she might be out and half hoped that she would be; then I could leave her a message and give her the option of calling me. But how cowardly, how silly that was. Surely, old friends can always pick up the reins. Old friends will always be there.
She answered on the third ring. ‘Hello?’ she said.
‘Karen,’ I said. ‘Hi. It’s Jane.’
‘Jane,’ she said in surprise.
‘Hi,’ I said again. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘How are you?’
‘Fine,’ I said, and quickly, ‘We haven’t spoken for ages.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Well, we’re all busy, I suppose . . .’
And so we carried on. Superficial, stilted chit-chat. The awkwardness was palpable. I held the phone in one hand and slipped my other hand inside my sweatshirt and pinched at the soft skin of my stomach with my fingernails. Finally I braced myself to say, ‘Actually, things haven’t been that good lately. Between David and me.’
She said nothing.
I forced myself to continue. ‘He was seeing someone else. Can you believe it? I found out after we’d been away for the weekend. Some colleague from work. Karen, it’s been awful.’
Still she said nothing, but I could hear her breathing.
‘He’s staying in London now,’ I said.
And she said, ‘I know.’
‘You know?’
‘Yes, he – he told Ed. I think they met up for a drink a couple of times.’
‘Oh,’ I said.
After a moment she said, ‘I was really sorry to hear about it.’ Though not, apparently, sorry enough to have phoned me. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘I was just on my way out. I can’t really talk now. I’ll call you back, soon.’
She wouldn’t though; we both knew that. I cannot tell you how betrayed I felt. David and Ed had only ever met because of us; she and I were the real friends. That’s what I’d thought. The hurt of it stuck in my throat.
The happiness had gone from our house, snuffed out like the flame of a candle. I drove Sam and Ella to school on damp, gloomy mornings and killed the hours in between until it was time to collect them again. I wandered around the town, making the most of any errands. So far, I’d avoided actually going into the one and only estate agents in town, though David had of course; David had driven up one Saturday and arranged the valuation. I had signed the agreement, numb, thinking still this wasn’t real. Still there was time for us to stop, and go back to before. But one morning I looked in the estate agent’s window, and there it was: our house, photographed with the autumn sunlight glinting off the windows. There was my car in the drive, and the front wheel of Sam’s bicycle peeping out from around the side. Ella’s riding boots were propped beside the front door. I stared at that picture of my home, feeling as if the strings of my heart had been cut.
‘You want to get yourself a lawyer,’ Melanie said when I talked to her about it, and no doubt she was right. But that way lay the end, and for me that end might well be a tiny ex-council place in one of the less desirable villages around here, the kind of place that people like David and I always bypassed in our search for the country proper. A place where dogs barked all day and kids roared around in uninsured cars for kicks. Our house was so heavily mortgaged that with my small portion such a place would be all I could afford. The prospect was unthinkable, a hideous, flipside nightmare to my whole country dream. Yet neither could I go back to London. I could not uproot the children and make them change schools again. And besides, what would I ever afford in London? I pictured David and me in identical, soulless flats in matching tower blocks – perhaps even the same block, high, high above the ground with the traffic roaring below. Oh sure, I painted a pretty bleak picture for myself, and maybe things wouldn’t be quite that bad, but I had moved here for a better life; for me, for my family. How could I admit it had failed?
My volunteering at the primary school had come to an end now that Ella had left and I needed to get a proper job, and one that paid well, but what? And where? Opportunities around here were few, and whatever I did it had to be local; the children needed me as a means of transport if nothing else. Of the other women I knew those who worked did so either seasonally or part-time, and got paid a pittance.
‘Come and work at the school canteen with me,’ Melanie said, and then, just in case I hadn’t got her point, ‘It was never in my career plan to be a dinner lady either.’
I scanned the paper, hoping something would come up.
At home, I listened to my children’s endless complaints about school, and homework, and our inadequately stocked fridge, if I listened to them at all. They bickered so much more than they used to, now that they were at the same school. Sam was sweet on a girl called Lydia; I knew this because Ella teased him mercilessly. She and her friends spied on him at break-time, following him about, giggling if he caught them.
‘She’s so annoying,’ Sam complained to me. ‘Tell her to stop.’
‘Oh, Sam, she’s just being a girl,’ I said. ‘Just ignore her.’
‘Lydia, Lydia,’ Ella sang under her breath and Sam flushed scarlet.
‘Mum, tell her!’
‘Ella, stop it,’ I said.
‘Lydia’s got lovely long blonde hair,’ Ella said, drawing an imaginary mane down her shoulders with her fingers. ‘Abbie said Max said Sam can’t take his big blue eyes off her.’ She batted her own eyelashes, tauntingly. And every time Sam went out, she asked, ‘Will Lydia be there?’
Still, at least Sam had something to distract from the misery of home. Lucky him.
I watched the leaves falling from the trees; so many leaves, forever drifting on the breeze. Once, I looked out of my living-room window at the hideous For Sale sign that had been slapped up outside our house just as a gust of wind snatched those leaves up again and whirled them around, a mesmerizing tornado of red and gold and brown. I always loved the autumn here, on bright days; the colours, the freshness of the air and the lovely prospect of the planning for Christmas. Not so now. Winter loomed ahead; I could not bear even to t
hink about it.
TWENTY-THREE
One Saturday in early October David drove up early so that he could fix the trellis that had come loose at the front, and sort out the garden; we had to keep the place tidy now, we had to keep it presentable. Who knew when some prospective buyer might come wandering by, some other family wanting to escape the city for the good life, perhaps? While he was here he drove into town to visit the estate agent’s. To check on progress, he said, to try and get things moving.
He tried to make out he was helping me and came back with a handful of details of other random and no doubt totally inappropriate properties around here. That he had so quickly selected a number of places he deemed suitable for me and his children to live in, and that he had therefore already stuck a price limit on those places, infuriated me. It made me feel as if he thought anything would do. He placed the details down on the kitchen table and there they lay, fit for composting, nothing more. I would not touch them. I would not play along.
‘At least look at them, won’t you?’ he said. ‘We have to start somewhere.’
I ignored him, and he sighed.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘the guy fixed up a viewing while I was there. They’re coming round on Monday at about four. I told him you’d let him know if that time’s not convenient.’
‘Of course it’s not convenient,’ I said. ‘I’ll be picking the kids up from school.’
David flushed, ashamed at himself for being so stupid, I presume, as well as with irritation at me. ‘Phone them and change it to a time that is convenient,’ he said. ‘Or we’ll have to let the agent have a key.’
‘No time is convenient,’ I said. ‘And they’re not having a key.’
‘Do you have to be so stubborn?’ he said. ‘This really isn’t fair on me.’
‘On you?’ Heat rushed into my head, roaring in my ears. ‘It isn’t fair on you?’
‘I need a place to live too,’ he said.
‘I don’t care if you live on a fucking park bench after what you have done to me,’ I yelled at him. ‘You are not fair!’
Max came round that night, after David had gone back to London. Jake dropped him off in Melanie’s car. Abbie was supposed to be coming too but she’d gone down with a throat infection, ruining Melanie’s plan for the evening. Actually I was quite glad; I had to make more of an effort when both the girls were there. I had to be more attentive and more fun, and provide nice things to eat. And no way could I be fun tonight.
I could not stop crying.
Max had brought a couple of films round on DVD; the boys would be closeted in the den all evening, Ella too. I sat in my kitchen and I looked out at the black, black sky beyond my window. The darkness was infinite; you could be in a hole looking out there, you could be buried alive. No stars tonight, no streetlights ever.
The kitchen door opened, and Max came in. Automatically I stood up, and went to busy myself at the sink. I didn’t want anyone to see me crying.
‘Jane?’ he said.
I found a cup to wash up, and turned on the tap.
‘You OK?’
My eyes were heavy with tears. I felt so incredibly tired.
He walked towards me, and laid his hand on my shoulder. And God forgive me but he was big and he was warm and he was solid, and I was just so desperate for comfort, any comfort. I turned into his arms and he held me against his chest, so close that I could feel his heart beating rapidly beneath my ear.
‘Ssh,’ he said, as I cried into his T-shirt. Clumsily, he stroked his hand up and down my back. ‘Ssh, now. It’ll be all right.’
A moment’s peace, that was all; a moment’s understanding. A little human warmth. I wished to God it was my own son comforting me, but he was ensconced in the den, glued to the TV, oblivious to me, entirely blind to my feelings.
Later, when I had washed my face and recovered myself, I stuck a couple of bags of popcorn into the microwave, and loaded up a tray: popcorn, cookies, lemonade for Ella, beer for the boys and wine for me. I carried the tray through the living room to the den. I could hear the shatter and scream of some hideous action adventure; they had the volume up far too loud as usual. I hooked the door handle down with one hand, careful not to upset the tray, and kicked open the door.
‘Hi,’ I said over the roar of gunfire, ‘refreshments.’
Sam ignored me; he was lying on the floor, sprawled across cushions. Ella, who was on the floor next to him in her pyjamas now, ready for bed, jumped up to grab the popcorn and sent the tray wobbling in my hands.
‘Woah!’ said Max. ‘Careful.’ He got up from the sofa where he had been stretched out full length, legs hanging over the arm, and helped me set down the tray on the floor.
‘Thanks, Jane,’ he said, taking a beer.
‘Ssh,’ Sam said. ‘Be quiet.’
I sat on the sofa next to Max. He moved over to make room for me and I sat on my side with my legs curled up, leaning on the arm of the sofa, one hand holding my glass. My feet were bare and cold; I tucked them under Max’s legs to warm them. I watched the film seeing none of it. I wanted just the comfort of being near to those that I loved: my children. Max, too, seemed much like another son to me. It is quite a strange thing for your son’s friend to see you cry. The way he had responded struck me as very tender, very sweet. I drank my wine, and I sank into my tiredness, curled up on that sofa.
‘Look!’ Ella squealed, sitting up and pointing at the TV. ‘That girl looks like Lydia, doesn’t she?’ She turned to Max for verification, sticking out her arm, pointing her finger.
‘Shut up, Ella,’ Sam said and kicked her.
‘Ow!’ yelled Ella. ‘But she does, doesn’t she, Max? She’s got hair just like Lydia.’
Beside me Max laughed, that gentle ho-ho-ho.
Sam was furious. Again he kicked Ella and again she squealed, and then she upset the popcorn, all over the floor.
‘Mum,’ Sam whined. ‘Tell her to go away. Why is she even in here? Send her to bed!’
‘You’re missing the film,’ I said. ‘And look, there’s popcorn everywhere.’
‘Well do something,’ Sam said to me.
‘Just ignore her, Sam,’ I said.
And Ella, who was nearly in tears now, said, ‘I was only saying. And she does look like Lydia.’
Beside me, Max said, ‘She does a bit.’
And Sam swore under his breath, and moved as far away from Ella as he could get in that somewhat restricted space.
‘Does your sister drive you nuts?’ I said to Max.
He smiled at me lazily. ‘Sometimes,’ he said.
We watched two films, back to back. It was an awfully long time to be sitting there. I dozed, resting my head on the arm of the sofa. Then finally Ella decided to go off up to bed, and I stretched, rousing myself.
‘Night, sweetie,’ I said.
‘I’m going to bed, too,’ Sam said, clearly still offended by that earlier little incident, and off he went too, leaving just Max and me.
‘You’ll be all right down here?’ I said to Max. ‘You know how to get the bed out, don’t you?’
‘I’ll be fine,’ he said, totally at home.
‘Right, then.’
‘I might just watch a bit more TV,’ he said.
‘OK,’ I said. ‘Turn out the lights when you’ve finished, would you? Sleep well.’
‘You too,’ he said.
Ella took forever to clean her teeth. Sam was outside on the landing. I could hear him banging on the bathroom door.
‘Hurry up,’ he yelled.
But Ella would not hurry. It seemed an age until they were both done, and finally in bed. I sat on my bed, waiting for the bathroom to be free. My bedroom curtains were open, as I liked them that way. There was no need to draw them for privacy here; there was no one to look in, no one to see. I had privacy in abundance whether I wanted it or not. And the blackness of the sky never failed to astound me on moonless nights such as this. In London the sky was always burning from underneat
h, suffused with an orange glow from all those buildings and streetlights. I had never really known dark until I moved out here. I listened to my children going to bed. I listened to the silence descend.
When the house had been quiet for quite some time I undressed, put my bathrobe on over my nightshirt and went to the bathroom myself. There I cleaned my teeth, and splashed water on my face. It was a sad expression that met me in the mirror; those shadowed eyes, that pale face. These days I avoided looking at my reflection for any longer than I had to, because therein lay the reminder of what I used to be, and more poignantly, of what I had lost. Quickly, I rubbed moisturiser into the dry skin on my cheeks, concentrating on tasks to be done.
There was still a light on downstairs when I came out of the bathroom and went back to my room, but I thought nothing of it. Yet I am struggling now, writing this. I am trying to reconcile my actions then with how I feel now. I am looking back, tracing the very ordinariness and tiredness of my movements that night. My head ached. I drew the curtains against my bedroom window lest the morning light should wake me; I wanted to sleep in. And I turned my bedside light on and then the main light off, and hung my dressing gown on the hook on the back of the door. I walked back around to my side of the bed – oh, yes, I still slept on my side – and was about to get in when there was a tap at my door. At first I thought I’d misheard but that tap came again. Had it been Sam or Ella they’d have come straight in, so I knew it was Max. And sure I was a little startled but I assumed he must have a problem folding out the sofa bed or something; some minor concern from downstairs.
‘Just a minute,’ I said, quietly, so as not to wake anyone else. I was midway to the door to get my dressing gown when in he came, right in to my room. I was wearing just an old thigh-length T-shirt, but still, he’d seen me dressed much like that before, when we were camping, for instance; I did not think it odd. Not straight away. He closed the door behind him, and even then I did not really think anything of it. I just waited for him to tell me what he wanted. He was smiling, and I felt no need for alarm.
The Safest Place Page 20
